The Man With Few Words
by girlwiththoughts
Summary: Jacob Black had never seen so many colors on one girl before. Jacob/OC
1. Gravitation

**The Man With Few Words**

"_Gravitation cannot be held responsible for people falling in love."—Albert Einstein_

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Chapter One

Jacob Black was a man of few words.

He didn't exactly choose to be like this. This wasn't his attempt to be cool. It was simply the way he is and he simply could not help it.

No. That was a lie. He knew why he was being this. He knew why he became this angst-ridden, brooding beast. It was all because of _her_. He held his breath as her name flashed into his mind. Her pretty, pretty hair and slightly pained eyes. Slightly pained—but happy. She was happy without him. Happy with..._him_.

_Him_ and _her_. They 'belonged' together. They 'loved' each other. They're 'destined'. What a load of bullshit. It was bullshit because it was true. Because it was irrefutable. He had desperately wanted her to pick him. She had many chances to. Before taking off to Italy, that day in the forest, standing on the altar of her wedding. He hoped that she would tear herself away from _him_, tear off her ring and jump into his arms.

Jacob Black's fantasy did not come true.

She did go to Italy and reunite with _him_. She chose _him_ that day in the forest for all of eternity. She married _him_ with such a radiant happiness that it made him mad with jealousy.

There was a hole in Jacob Black. A hole that no amount of Emily's pancakes, Sam's wisdom, or even Leah's heartbreak and the joy he got from knowing that there was someone else out there just like him, could ever fill.

Jacob Black was broken. And he didn't want to be fixed. Least of all by _her_. No, a different _her_. The girl with the colors.

* * *

Jacob Black hadn't spoken in a very long time. After all, he was a man with few words. In fact, he had stopped counting after the first few months. His pack grew frustrated and eventually gave up. They didn't recognize this man of few words. They wanted _their_ Jacob back. The happy, optimistic Jacob with the lopsided grin. Jacob wanted _that_ Jacob back too. Sure, he wanted to be happy and optimistic and smile. But without _her_, he simply didn't know how to be. He was a lost cause without her.

And so he ran. Jacob Black; Jacob Wolfe; Jacob-you're-my-best-friend-and-I-love-you-but-I-love-_him_-more, ran.

His paws had touched Canada, where the weather is unforgiving and harsh. His nose had took in the dry scent of Arizona, where he remembers _she_ told him that it was once her home. He got his hair trimmed in Argentina, where the blazing sun scorched his nose and left him sunburned for the first time in his life.

For an entire year, he ran. He ran until his lungs were going to explode. He ran until he thought he was going to collapse onto the ground, dead. He ran until his muscles clenched and his veins pumped battery acid. Then he ran some more.

And when Jacob Black; Jacob Wolfe; Jacob-you're-my-best-friend-and-I-love-you-but-I-love-_him_-more; returned to his hometown of La Push, they all thought that he had returned. _Their_ Jacob was finally back. They welcomed him with open arms and wide smiles only to realize, with crestfallen grimaces, that he wasn't. This 19 year-old Jacob had _their_ Jacob's smooth, russet skin and _his_ shaggy, matted hair. Yet, there was no happy, flashing beam. There was nothing in his deep, sunken eyes except the demons he so carefully hid.

Jacob Black returns to them with a hardened jaw and furrowed brows, his great, big, noble head incapable of any expression. This wasn't _their _Jacob. This wasn't even the angry, heartbroken Jacob. And in his place, there stood the man with few words.

* * *

Jacob Black had never seen so many colors on one girl before. He had never seen so many colors in his whole _lifetime_. All so bright and vivid that it didn't seem real to him at first. But there they were all right. Righteous and haughty, billowing and dancing with the wind at the edge of the trail.

Jacob hadn't expected to see this colorful girl. No, he didn't expect to see anyone at all. Ever since his return, Jacob had acquired a fondness for walking. Running? No; he was tired of running. Instead, he took long walks. Very long...sinuous...8 mile walks.

On this dreary, cloudy day, Jacob had been wandering aimlessly around the woods, ignoring Seth's constant whining in his mind by phasing back. As a human, it was much easier to block out their thoughts. It was still there of course, a quiet, subtle nagging at the back of his conscience, but at least its not heartwrenchingly clear like how it was in his wolf form.

Walking gave Jacob time to think. He's been doing a lot of that lately. He'd just think and let his feet carry him back home. Then he'd sit on the couch and think some more. And once in a while, when he decides that he was starting to reek, he'd take a shower.

This was his routine. He didn't sleep much. Didn't eat much. Didn't talk much. What does Jacob think about, people might ask. _Well...everything_, he guesses. But mostly _her_.

His feet carry him onto a worn trail that leads back into town. The wind's starting to whip up but he can barely feel it as it laces through his tangled hair. He shoves his hands into the pocket of his sweatpants and starts a leisure stride.

And it was here. On this trail. On this fateful, cloudy day, that he encountered _her_.

At first, Jacob was surprised. Which is strange, because nothing surprised him anymore. He came to a complete stop in the middle of the road and did a double-take.

_Jacob Black had never seen so many colors on one girl. _

She stood facing out the edge, down a steep trench of earth and grass. Her raven tress is as black as midnight, waves that fell like a waterfall, tumbling down to her elbow. But in this instance, flew out behind her like some inky, velvet cape.

And she wore...oh God, if Jacob could've laughed, he would've. She wore a pale lavender cardigan, sleeves rolled up. A sky blue button up beneath, pinstriped with white, and a thin braided brown belt that cinched both the shirt and the cardigan to her tiny waist. A strange-looking knit scarf with varying shades of turquoise and orange clashing together, wrapped snugly around her slender neck. She had on a gypsy skirt that went down to her knees, splashes of color and pictures painted on them like cavemen drawing on walls. With her lime green stockings and fire-engine red boots and matching red gloves, she looked like how a person would look like after a box of IcePops threw up all over them.

But Jacob Black just thought she looked dazzling.

After all, he wasn't sure how anybody could dress like that could still manage to look dignified with her head held high and hands—curled into fists—on her narrow hips. Jacob thought that she looked rather proud for one so small. She probably couldn't even sweep his chest. Short and thin as a rail. But adorned with color.

_Jacob Black had never seen so many colors on one girl. _But she looked like she belonged out there. Her and all her colors.

Frozen in his path, bare-foot and bare-chested, Jacob felt grossly underdressed. And dull.

As if she could feel his searing, burning gaze trained at her back, the colorful girl turned. She looks startled by his presence, or perhaps it was his size. Her delicate, angular face is blank. Her eyes, framed with curly lashes, are dove gray, softening the otherwise bold features, which consisted of slashing cheekbones and a chiseled jaw.

She blinks her cat-like eyes. Jacob raises a brow. The girl breaks into a sheepish grin and holds up a map, "I'm afraid I'm terribly lost." Her soprano is crisp and clipped.

But she didn't look lost. Not to him.

It's Jacob's turn to blink. He didn't know what she expected him to do upon this revelation. So he just continues to stand there like a dumb brute, hands stuck in his pants. She tilts her head, and he notices that she's wearing a hairband wound around her forehead, a large daisy—and from what he can tell, a real one—was clasped there by it.

Taking slow, deliberate steps towards him, she asks, "Are you lost too?"

Jacob blinks again. He's starting to think that it's all he's capable of doing. The presence of the colorful girl made his chest constrict for some reason. She made his blood run a little faster. Bewildered, Jacob furrows his thick brows. He supposes that she took this as an affirmative that he didn't know where he was going too. Which, in a sense, he didn't.

So she resorts to studying the map again, scowling with hopeful conviction. Tugging on the ends of her jet-black hair, she reaches into a sunflower yellow messenger bag and pulls out a compass. She points her little index finger in the air and turns it correspondingly as the compass swivels, gathering its bearings.

The compass stops. And she frowns. "Hmm." She hums, pulling at her long waves again.

Jacob covers the distance between them with two strides. He studies the map only for an instance before silently taking it from her hands and flipping it right side up.

Embarrassed, the girl grins, "Ah, yes. But of course." She holds up the compass again. Her finger swaying. "We should be heading in..." She points left, in the direction he had came from. _No, that's not right_. But Jacob doesn't tell her that. Her finger then turned drastically, to the opposite side, "_That_ way." She beckons to him with a wave of her arm when she sees that he's still glued to the ground, "C'mon then."

Jacob detects a bit of a Southern twang from her voice. Alabama or Gerogia. One of those quaint milk states.

They walked in silence for a bit, but it was a nice silence. With the girl making marks on her map and checking her compass. Her silky hair shimmied with the breeze and she smelled nice. Like flowers and the ocean.

The girl puts away her map and gives him a hesitant smile. Her stormy eyes are pale and glassy, like a window. "Do you live around here?" She starts conversationally, hands bound behind her back. Her scarlet boots are flat and made wet, squishy noises with her every step.

Jacob purses his lips and nods.

She nods too, staring at her feet, "I haven't seen you around." She admits with a slight crease in her arched brows, "But I've only just moved in two weeks ago. I thought I'd get myself familiarized with the whole place, you know." She pulls at her inky locks, a habit of hers, he imagines. "I didn't expect to wander in this deep...or get lost." Her sly grin made his chest burn. She peers up at the sky with her smoky eyes, smoldering as she squints. "Looks like it's gonna rain."

Jacob purses his lips and nods.

"The weather here gets pretty awful, doesn't it? But I rather like the rain..." The girl walked with a spring in her step. Almost as if she were dancing. And she flailed her arms about for emphasis. Jacob noticed that there was a very awkward grace with her, for every once in a while there would a clumsy break in her fluid step and she would appear to stumble, like taken by surprise.

Jacob couldn't really concentrate on what she was saying. Probably because it was all just nervous ramblings. But he nodded in places he thought was appropriate and kept his eyes forward. He had no idea what she was talking about, but he liked the way she talked. In fact, he found her intriguing. He found her colorful clothes and crisp voice comforting.

He thought of _her_. How she never wore colorful clothes. How she never had flowers in her hair or smelled like the ocean. And he grew a little angry. The corners of his mouth twisted into a scowl. Why doesn't she? Why couldn't_ she_ stand in front of him like the colorful girl did, and looked like _she _belonged?

His blood thundered in his ear and his chest ached with something fierce. A deep, burning fire brewed within him as he realized that her metallic gaze was not gray, but rather...silver, and that her mouth was very red. His head snapped over in an instant and he blurts involuntarily, almost like a brain fart, "What's your name?"

There goes his vow of silence. His voice, which is usually already husky, is now a deep croak. The muscles in his jaw were sore from being clenched shut for so long. His lungs felt squeezed.

The girl stopped walking for a moment and in that awkwardly graceful way of hers, staggered. Her silver eyes are glimmering like tinsels on Christmas trees. She tilts her head again, as if trying to recall rather or not she's mentioned it before. She resumes walking, and she chimes in her staccato, "January."

_No_, Jacob wanted to say. _It's October._

She must've noticed the confusion on his face because she peered deep into his sunken eyes with her own glittering ones and clarified, "My name is January. January Jansen."

They're strolling down the road in that casual speed again. Jacob Black tries the name out on his stiff tongue, "Jan-U-airy."

She's turns and hums, "Hmm?"

Again, "Jan-U-airy."

The corners of her mouth twitched. Jacob noticed that it was a very sweet smile. Like she found the sound pleasing. It kinda made his throat swell. She hooks a strand of silk black hair behind her ear. He found it a little mesmerizing. "How 'bout you, stranger?"

It takes him a few moments to realize that she was asking for his name. It wasn't that Jacob didn't want her to know his name. It wasn't that it was some big secret. He just didn't want to get too attached to her. He blinks and purses his lips.

"Jacob." But he wanted her to know his name. "Black." He wanted her to say his name in that funny articulated way of hers.

And she didn't fail him. "Jay-cub." She drawls. He found her Southern twang charming. He found all of her charming. Her colors and her flowers and her unusual name. "Jay-cub. Juh-cake." She crinkles her nose when she laughs. Her laugh is loud and uninhibited. It was real and true. He remembers _her_ laugh, which always sounds more like a cough, hesitant and miserable. He wished that _she_ could've laughed like January.

They had stopped yet again and judging from the look of the clouds, they were going to get caught up in the rain if they didn't pick up their pace. He could smell the rain. The dampness in the air, the sogginess of the ground, and the faint scent of gardenias.

He took bigger steps, his arms swinging freely by his side. January struggled to keep up, almost working up a brisk jog, her cheeks rosy from the cold. Her colors leaped with her, coal black tress flying.

Something deep inside Jacob Black ached. Something near his chest, something that made his pulse pound within his ear. Jacob Black felt as if he was on fire. Not the way he felt before he phased, that inexplicable anger, but rather a slow, burning flame. As if the girl with all her colors and her silver eyes had crawled under his skin and set up camp inside of him.

And there goes the brain fart, that burst of energy not even the man with few words could restrain, "Where are you from?" But if Jacob was embarrassed, he didn't show it. He just inclines towards her with his hollow, sunken eyes.

She blinks, and if she were surprised by his remark, she didn't show it. "North Carolina." She replies with ease, seemingly a little more relaxed now that he's joining in with the conversation. "Daddy taught at Duke. English Literature professor." That would explain her enunciation skills. "Mama stayed at home mostly but she had piano classes, although I never really picked up on it real well, I just couldn't sit still..."

He hung onto her every word like a pathetic puppy. He would absorb all the information and store it in the back of his mind. And the questions flooded out of Jacob Black naturally. He couldn't stop them. Not even a goddamn dam could stop them. He had to know her. He needed to know her. He..._wanted_ to know her.

_Did you go to Duke? _

"No. When I graduated, I packed my bags and went to New York. Studied at NYU for three years. Liberal and visual art. I couldn't paint to save my life but I liked learning about it. I had this wild, rebellious dream that I would go to a big city and see the world, you know. Do exciting things? Make a name for myself?"

_Did you?_

Her smile is sad. Her gaze, more charcoal than metallic. "Not really." She answers softly.

The man with few words only waited a beat. _Why are you here?_

She seems to perk up at that, "I moved here! New York was...a little too much for me and I was much too ashamed to go home. So I thought I'd take a break, you know. Just...settle down for a year or two. Take it easy."

Jacob Black wanted a break. Jacob Black wanted to settle down. Jacob Black wanted to 'take it easy'. But _she _wouldn't let him. She'd haunt him day and night with the smile she saved just for him and make his head spin with dreams he could never achieve. She was cruel to him like that.

"—Jacob? Did you see that?" Her gunmetal irises pierced through his dark, empty pupils. "Jacob!" She points her compass finger towards the woods. "There was a bear, Jay-cub. I saw it!"

Jacob could still see it, melting itself against the pending darkness. It was Embry. His gaze directed curiously at the girl. Jacob's eyes narrowed and an explosion of anger bloomed inside of him. Gruffly, he urges her forward by stepping in front, "I don't see anything."

She tilts her head in a familiar gesture, that big, dumb flower still cinched into her hair. She pulls on her raven waves. "_Are _there bears in the woods, Jay-cub?"

The man with few words didn't know what to say to the colorful girl. So, he just shakes his head.

He knew she was still uncomfortable but that was forgotten as she launched into an encounter of her own. He liked how feverent she was. And he liked how her words are crisp but her voice, dewy. He liked how her silvery irises always peered at him with wonder and secrecy, as if the she's telling him things only he's allowed to know.

"When I came here yesterday, I saw a duck crossing."

Jacob Black waited for the big reveal. And...the duck took forever? And she killed the duck for being so slow? And Jesus parted the path like how Moses parted the Red Sea and the duck crossed to safety?

Jacob Black didn't say anything. He just blinked.

And January Jansen's face fell a little. She raises a very arched brow and demands, "Do you see ducks crossing a lot?"

Jacob Black wanted to smile. He would've if his hard mask allowed movement. He feared that if he were to grin at her silly story, his face would've cracked—or fell apart.

They walk on for a few silent moments and it wasn't until he looked down, that he found her looking _up_ at him. She was just so elfishly small. She's grinning softly, and she touches the flower in her velvet hair.

"You don't talk much." She says. It wasn't phrased as a question; a statement.

The man with few words shakes his head. "No." He answers and she seems put-off so he adds, "I used to."

She blinks, "And?"

Jacob Black; Jacob Wolfe; Jacob-you're-my-best-friend-and-I-love-you-but-I-love-_him_-more, shrugs his broad shoulders. "And...it didn't help."

Talking did not make _her_ stay. It did not convince _her_ that he was the one she needs to be with and not _him_. It did not make any difference whatsoever. Talking was useless. At least with silence, he could curl up in the space between the words and turn his back on the loneliness.

January Jansen; the girl with the colors; the girl with a flower in her hair, lets her red lips curve into a slight smile. "Ah." She murmurs before making an abrupt stop. She glides over to the edge of the trail in that clumsy, agile way of hers and picks out a blood red poppy. The color of the crimson petals matched her gloves. She dances back to him and stands on her very tiptoes.

And Jacob Black just stands there; immobile.

Very slowly, she pushes the stem behind his ear, her slender arms straining until she manages to tuck it neatly among his tousled mane. "But when you're sad, you need to hear your sorrow structured into sound." Her eyes, light as the rain, are glowing.

Jacob Black; Jacob Wolfe; Jacob-with-a-flower-behind-his-ear. Jacob's heart burned. His heart—which he thought was nonexistent throbbed.

_Jacob Black had never seen so many colors on one girl before. _

* * *

**End Note:**

**The Man of Few Words has always been like a little pet project of mine and it's been brewing in my mind for...quite a while now, actually. I have pages upon pages of scribbled notes and you would not imagine the things I've got planned. I mean, most of them are to be eliminated but I definitely have a few directions I want to take it. **

**I think that, you know, this story's definitely written in a different style than I'm accustom to and I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Tell me what you think about this Man of Few Words and our impish little January Jansen and their first meeting. **

**Feedback is always much appreciated. **

**I'd also like to dedicate this story to my bestie, Jen, who--without her, I would be nothing and to AneleTiger, who gave me the big final inspiration for this story that gave me the push I needed to post it. Her story 'The Newtonian Law of Gravity' is seriously amazing and the Jacob part of the short story in it 'The Lost and the Found' is the BOMB! Check it if you haven't already!**

**Love you all,**

**Kira 'Kitty'.**


	2. Crossroad

**The Man With Few Words**

"_The writer operates at a peculiar crossroad where time and place and eternity somehow meet. His problem is to find that location." –Flannery O'Connor_

* * *

_Chapter Two_

Jacob Black was a decisive man.

He didn't hesitate. He didn't worry. He didn't second-guess himself. He always knew what he wanted and he always knew what he needed to do. Jacob Black relied on impulse and instinct; he did not analyze himself.

He always knew that _she_ was the girl for him. She was quiet and pensive and miserably gorgeous. They were compatible together. They fit. They..._worked_. She had said that being with him was as easy as breathing. She told him that their relationship was effortless. And she told him that she never wanted to see him hurt.

Jacob Black wondered that, if that was the case, then that day before she chased him down in Italy; that day in the forest; that day on the altar; did she close her eyes?

Jacob Black had never experienced heartbreak before. But of course, _she_ had been his first love. His only love. And love had failed him.

Jacob Black vividly remembers the day Carrie-Anne Robinson from his 4th grade class pronounced her love for him by tossing him a note that read:_ Do you like me?_ He remembers scowling at the note with his great brows furrowed as his friends waggled their eyebrows and made hoots.

The man with few words had been a bright child back then, with a megawatt smile and glistening russet skin. He glanced at Carrie-Anne Robinson with her bubblegum blonde curls, glittering blue eyes, and a dimple with her left cheek, and he checked the box that read: _No_.

Carrie-Anne Robinson cried.

Jacob Black had thought his romantic life ended right there. He was grateful for it. Romance turned people into fools and idiots. And Jacob Black was no fool.

Or so he thought.

* * *

People usually have had no knowledge that their lives had just changed. People seldom sit at a crossroad and know it's a crossroad. Nobody knows how big of an impact a single event can make until much later in their life.

When the man with few words saw a strange colorful girl in the middle of a trail, he didn't expect to have his life altered. He didn't expect to fall out of depression. He didn't expect to talk. He didn't expect much of anything from one so small. He had just thought she was weird.

"Maybe we should toss a coin." January Jansen turns to face him with her silvery eyes. She was frowning ever-so slightly with her lips pushed out into a frustrated pout.

They were standing—quite literally—at a fork in the road. They could go left, a relatively tamed path that seems to never end. Or they could go right, a relatively tamed path that seems to never end. The choices were endless.

January yanked on her long black hair, scowling furiously at her compass. She taps the protective glass then tilts her head. Her great white daisy looked lavender against the setting sun. She flips the map this way then that. She peers up at him through her long lashes and sighs.

"I think our only option right now is to take a guess and hope for the best. What's it going to be, Jay-cub?"

Jacob Black effortlessly begins to trek down the left trail, confident that they shall reach the reservation in no time. January scurries behind him obediently, tucking a stray strand of inky wave behind her ear and readjusting her flower.

There was a lull of silence.

Jacob Black asks, "What did you do?" It was a brain fart. A word diarrhea. A phrase vomit. He couldn't control himself.

January Jansen's brows creased in confusion. Her stormy eyes flickered as she stares, "What do you mean?"

He shakes his head. He didn't really know what he meant—or perhaps he did, he just wasn't sure how to word it properly. He wishes he had her grammar. "You said you studied art. But...you didn't draw well. So—what did you do?" His voice is still raspy.

"I...well, you know..." She shrugs. "Worked temp jobs. Here and there. Never lasted long though." She laughs, it sounds a little strained. "Guess I was never that good at anything." She tilts her head.

Jacob Black found the action charming. He found all of her charming. Especially how her bangs were too long and they kissed her lashes. He thought it made her looked like a moppet.

And they walked on in silence.

The man with few words felt...comfort...for the first time in a very long time. He liked the way her name was weird but rolled fluently off his tongue. He liked the way her colors leaped with her clumsily elegant movements. But most importantly, he liked how she was the complete opposite of _her_. He'd almost forgotten what its like being with someone who wasn't pained every time he saw them. He'd almost forgotten what its like just to...be with someone. Someone normal.

With an electric thrill, Jacob Black; Jacob Wolfe; Jacob-you're-my-best-friend-and-I-love-you-but-I-love-_him_-more, realized: _he likes her_.

Oh. _Oh._ Well, that certainly changes things. In fact, the revelation was so surprising to Jacob that he had to stop in the middle of the road once more.

Jacob Black was confused. He wasn't sure how he could like someone after just meeting them. In fact, he was confused as to what kind of 'like' he was referring to. Did he like her as a friend? As a person in general? Did he like her—in the way he liked _her_?

Jacob Black was angry. Why was he feeling this? What was he doing with her anyways? He should've just left her alone. She would've found her way eventually. Why the hell did he care so much anyways? The last time he checked, he wasn't capable of doing that just yet.

Jacob Black was at peace. He liked the way she made him feel. Calm. He hasn't felt calm ever since the phasing started. He was constantly on edge; angry, and vigilant. She made him relaxed him with her childish stories and moppet-like youth.

"Jay-cub?" She cocks her head again. She's standing 10 feet in front of him, turbulent irises glazed over. "Are you all right?"

He frowns at the fluttering feeling in his stomach. As if his insides were filled with vultures. He shakes his head, matted locks flying everywhere, "I'm fine." He catches up with her in two steps. Again, he notices that she's incredibly tiny. "Jan-U-airy?"

They resume walking in a brisk pace, the growing darkness and flashing clouds hurrying them forward. She combs her long, pale fingers through her onyx black hair, glittering madly with the dusky weather. "You may call me 'Jan' if you like. January's quite long of a name."

Jacob's tongue is heavy. "Jan?" He splutters.

Her slender arms swung by her side as she glided, "Mm-hmm." She hums, "Everybody calls me 'Jan' back home."

Jan. January. Jansen. Jacob Black wonders if the alliteration was done on purpose.

"Jan. Jan." He's never felt more like a dumb brute. In fact, he thought of himself as Tarzan. Or the boy raised by wolves. He could've laughed at the irony but instead, he purses his lips and shakes his great big head. Jan didn't suit her. It didn't sound right. Blinking, he lets the nickname just whirl out like another brain fart, "Janie. Jane-ee."

January Jansen fiddles with the daisy in her raven tress and smiles impishly. "I'll answer to that." January Jansen had a dimple, he suddenly recognizes, a dimple that reminded him fiercely of Carrie-Anne Robinson.

"Look, Jay-cub!" She raises herself onto her tip-toes and whoops in excitement. Her colors danced all around her as she trills happily, "It's the reservation!" She beams up at him, charcoal gaze smoldering and scarlet lips curling.

Jacob Black shuddered although that familiar feeling of being burned alive enveloped his chest. The silly, colorful girl mistook this as a reaction to the damp chill. After all, he was wearing naught but a pair of ragged sweatpants. She slides her cardigan off and drapes it carefully over him, struggling to even reach his chest.

It barely covered a single shoulder.

Jacob Black blinks. Rapidly. He wasn't sure what to think or how to proceed. It was a sweet gesture, he supposes. Sweet; but unnecessary. Awkwardly, he repositions the plum colored sweater until it hung from his neck like a scarf. Her crisp scent of fresh water and flowers filled his lungs. He didn't want her to feel bad or anything so he rasps, "Um...thanks."

She grins. "No problem, Jay-cub."

The man with few words attempted a smile in return. The corners of his mouth twitched. "Call me Jake."

* * *

"Who is she, Jacob?" Embry's head hovering in front of the television was _extremely_ distracting. He wanted nothing more than to swat it off his neck.

Jacob Black had just arrived home after a long night of patrolling. His hair is even more tangled up than before; his face is streaked with mud; and his feet are scratched by jagged rocks. He collapsed down at the couch with the intention to sleep but found that he couldn't.

Insomnia wasn't a stranger ever since he's met _her_. But this was different. This was about the other _her_. This was about Janie. He missed her comforting presence. Her eloquent words and her Southern twang. He missed all of her.

Involuntarily, as if something was pulling him, he reached over the back of the couch and stretched for her cardigan. The material is soft and her fragrance was stuck to it. He clutched it tight in his hand and fell back, sinking into the sofa, the sound of her name branded onto the edge of his lips.

Andthat's precisely how Embry found him.

How embarrassing it had been for him. He had awoke when Embry attempted to tug the cardigan out of his arms and he had instinctively tightened his hold on the clothing. And when Embry yanks again, with a little more force, Jacob's eyes jolt open and he tears it out of Embry's grasp with a feral growl. Blinking away the sleep, he regained enough conscience to stuff the cardigan between the cracks in the couch.

Embry bothered him for a little while, asking him if he saw anything on patrol and then inquiring about the sweater and its owner and then about the girl he saw him with on the trail that fateful afternoon.

Jacob ignored all his inquires and switched on the TV, hoping that his friend would eventually drop it and go away. He doesn't. He bends over the back of the couch in order to hang his face in front of Jacob's and voice loudly, "Who is she, Jacob?"

Which brings them to their predicament now.

Jacob flexes his fingers, the usual feeling of immense anger flooded through him. He grits his teeth and tries his hardest to push it away, squinting in order to preserve the sensation of peace January gave him.

"Jake!" Embry complains, "C'mon! What's going on? I saw you walking with her. I saw you _talk_ to her. You're not keeping some sort of secret girlfriend from us, are ya?"

Jacob pushes Embry's face away from him with a disgusted snort. He shakes his head and keeps his composure passive; he's had a lot of practice with this expression.

"Who is she? Do you know her?" The questions just don't stop.

Jacob shakes his head again.

"Know who?"

Jacob would've groaned. It just happens so that Quil bursts through the door in this precise moment, his happy face scrunched in puzzlement. "Know who, Jacob?" He asks, his innocent eyes wide. As if suddenly remembering that Jacob no longer spoke, he charges towards Embry, pulling on a shirt hastily. He asks again, "Know who, Embry?"

Embry tosses his arms up in the air, frustrated, "I don't know! That's what I'm trying to find out!" He heaves himself over the couch and plops down next to the man with few words. Jacob's suppressed annoyance amplified. Embry was seriously invading his personal space; and Jacob was claustrophobic. It could be due to the fact that he was so big himself. "What's her name, Jake? You gotta at least know her name!"

_Janie_, Jacob thought. But he doesn't tell his friends that. He settles for a nonchalant shrug, willing himself to be swallowed by the floor.

"Wait. You met a girl, Jake? What's she like? Who is she? Why didn't you say anything?" Quil occupies the other empty space until the three teenage werewolves are all compressed together on a single loveseat.

Jacob swallows and stands up abruptly. His voice is scratchy and he croaks, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Quil and Embry had to get over the initial shock that Jacob had actually talked. He had opened his mouth...and words came out. This was a miraculous occasion. They jumped up from the sofa and cluttered around him.

"You _do _know her! What's her name? Where does she live?"

"Is she someone we know? Does she live on the rez? How'd you meet her?"

Jacob just shrugged.

Embry's eyes narrowed in aggravation. And in an action that would be too fast for a human to follow, he reached into Jacob's unkempt shag and pulled out a flower. A single, blood-red poppy. Jacob cursed himself. He had known it would come back to haunt him.

Embry raised a brow, satisfied and proud. "How do you explain this, then?" Quil's shit-eating grin became so wide that it nearly split his face. He nods along smugly.

And Jacob just runs.

* * *

He didn't know why he didn't tell his friends about her. She was no one significant and telling them about her did him no harm. So why didn't he?

He wasn't sure. But something in him wanted to keep January all to himself. He didn't want anyone else to be aware of her and her vivid colors or her cute staccato. He didn't want anyone else to admire her inky locks and silver eyes. He was being illogical, but he didn't care.

He's walking, bare-foot and bare-chested, again. He's thinking about _her_ again. The _her_ that causes him pain. He thought about how beautiful she looked on her wedding day. He imagined himself to be the groom. In his dream, their wedding would be by the beach, on a warm and sunny day. She'd wear her chestnut hair down and her chocolate irises would twinkle. Charlie would walk her down the aisle and she'd cry as she stands before him because she just loved him that much.

His fantasy made his whole body ache. It'd tear at his ribcage and rip at his soul. He knows he should try and forget her. He needed to stop torturing himself.

And just as he's reverted back to his usual demeanor of misery and heartache, January Jansen danced back into his vision.

He didn't recognize her. Not at first.

With the rain coming down so hard and the cold mist pooling around his leg, he could barely see anything unless it was right in front of his face. It was a bright yellow raincoat that caught his attention and it made his chest swell because he remembers that _she_ had one.

He rushed forward, her name on the tip of his tongue. She came back to him. She left _him_. His entire body almost erupted out of happiness. It wouldn't matter that she's a vampire. Nothing would matter if she would tell him that she loved him. His ears rung with anxiety.

_No. No, Jacob. Stop._ His mind made him halt in mid-stride and he dug his heels into the ground. As he comes closer, he can see that this figure is slighter, thinner. Her hair was longer and darker. And that the sickening sweet smell of leeches eluded him.

He walks closer, slower. He blinks the rain away from his eyes and he calls, his baritone faint, "January?"

The figure raises her head. Yes, he recognizes her now. Her smell of gardenias. She's squatted on the side of the road next to her car. She could not yet spot him so she questions crisply, "Who is it?"

Jacob had expected the feeling of ecstasy to leave him, which, it did. But not completely, an ember of warmth remained, it made his russet skin buzz. He rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably, "It's me. Uh...Jacob."

He watches as she squints, "Jacob?" She repeats, perplexed.

He nods hesitantly, although he was sure she could not see. "Yeah. Jacob. Black. We—um, we met on the trail the other day."

She dances her way towards him, graceful and staggering, pulling the raincoat closer to herself as she lets out a melodic laugh, "I remember you, Jay-cub. I just can't believe our luck." She tries to keep her long mane out of the storm's path but fails horribly, her wet fringe stuck to her forehead, and droplets clinging onto her lashes. She shakes her head, attempting to dry herself, "It seems like every time I'm in trouble, you come to my rescue." She gestures to her car, a slick black vehicle. It takes him a while to process that she was referring to her flat tire.

She yanks on her midnight tress, "You wouldn't happen to know how to change a tire, would you?"

Jacob Black looks from her to the car. He realizes, with a ghostly smile, that she's wearing her colors again. The same crimson boots with sky blue stockings and a forest green skirt. Her light pink sweater matched her flushed cheeks. He wondered her dress code was considered normal in New York.

He looks to the car again and asks calmly, "Where's your spare?"

Her childish face brightens and she clambers to the trunk of her car. He squats down to inspect the vehicle with critical eyes as she rolled the spare tire to him with obvious struggle, her brows knit together. _The tire must've weighed more than her_, he decided.

In a few moments, using the tools she's got already laid out on the ground, Jacob Black manages to effortlessly screw on a new tire and pump all the tires up full with air while January worked on rolling the flat tire back into her trunk.

"Where are you heading?" She asks him, pulling her hood further over her head in order to shield herself from the rain.

Jacob was stuck for a second. He really wasn't heading anywhere but he thought that if he told her that, it would've seemed a little weird. Not that it would've mattered, because she was a little weird herself. "The grocery store." He replies.

"Me too!" She pulls open the passenger seat door open for him, "I'll give you a ride then. It's the least I can do." She eyes his bare chest critically, "You're going to get a cold sooner or later. Always wandering around half-naked."

He graces her with another ghostly smile then slides into the smooth, buttery seat. January hops into the other side a beat later, tossing off her soggy boots and flinging her raincoat behind her. She drove a quaint, little sports coupe, and she drove with both feet. Her seat scooted so close to the front that it looked like she was hugging the steering wheel.

She drove at a good, steady pace with the radio turned onto some rap channel. When he raised a thick brow at the questionable lyrics, she had the decency to turn a little red and confesses, "It's kind of my thing right now. Really dirty, like..._really_ dirty, obscene rap." She giggles, "It's so ridiculous that it makes me laugh and it makes me want to dance." She bounces in her seat for emphasis.

Jacob Black had never heard so many curse words in his life. But in a way, he supposes, the songs kinda suited January. They were uninhibited and lucrative and open. They were colorful. Just like she was.

* * *

_The Shop Mart_ is the only grocery store in La Push. And it takes January Jansen three tries before she can finally fit into her desired parking spot.

Jan-U-airy 'Janie' Jansen buys Cocoa Puffs. She buys Borden whole milk. She buys macaroni and canned chicken broth. She stocks up on carrots and oranges and lemons.

It was then that Jacob Black realizes, with a jolt, that instead of a daisy, she wore butterfly clips in her hair this time. A bunch of them. Glittering whenever they caught the light, their flighty metal wings would flop with the slightest of movements and they were all different colors. Pinks and blues and silvers. They made her full black waves shimmer as if surrounded by a sea of butterflies.

January Jansen takes almost half an hour to decide on which kind of blender to buy; about an eternity to choose between Coke and Dr. Pepper; but only a second to randomly grab a toaster oven. January Jansen purchases some Lysol all purpose cleaner.

Jacob Black just buys eggs.

January Jansen mulls over what color paint to buy as the man with few words waits impatiently. She prattles on in her clear, high voice, "I really need to get the yellow pages. I'm basically useless by myself. I can't even reach the ceiling while standing on my highest stool. Plus, I'm really no good with tools, I'll probably wound up cracking my head open."

There it goes. The brain fart. The word diarrhea. The phrase vomit. Jacob blurts, "I can help you."

She blinks in that dumb, clueless way she always does with her rainy gaze burning and her raven tress flying. He expected her to reject him in the usual polite way people do but instead she just says, "Oh." And she gives him her elfish grin, "That would be really nice."

Jacob shrugs, flicking away his wildly matted hair. Once again, she feels the impulse to fix it so she unwinds one of her delicate butterfly clips and snags it among his shaggy locks. The man with few words felt his chest grow hot. And once again, he tries to convince himself that she was nothing more than a silly girl with a flower.

* * *

**End note:**

**Thank you so much for all the favorites and for just...giving this story a chance, you know! I'm really excited and was planning to churn this update out earlier but I was out camping with a couple of my friends and when I came home, its just my luck that I came down with the cold so this took me JUST a tad longer to finish than I thought. But I'm completely in love with this story and there isn't a moment I don't think about Janie and Jake so just stay tuned, it's going incredibly well so far. **

**I'd like to give a special shoutout to 'call-911-it's-ellie' and 'Pink Ikawa 001', my two loyal reviewers. And to all of you who read the story. I love you all dearly and reviews are always faboo.**

**Question of the day: What about January do you love the most?**

**--Kira 'Kitty'**


	3. Painter

**The Man With Few Words**

"_Color possesses me. I don't have to pursue it. It will possess me always, I know it. That is the meaning of this happy hour: Color and I are one. I am a painter." –Paul Klee_

* * *

_Chapter Three_

Jan-U-airy Jansen did not call him 'Jake'. She didn't really revert back to calling him 'Jay-cub' either. Instead, she gave him a new name. She affectionately dubbed him as...Oh God...Jacob can barely get it past his lips. Dear Lord, he cringed every time he thought about it.

She called him...Jacoby. Juh-co-bee. Like some character from Aladdin.

He can't recall when she came up with this nickname or why. But most importantly, Jacob Black could not remember—not for the life of him, when and why he started _responding _to it. It came naturally. And he could not control himself. He would promise himself that he would never respond to that God-awful name but whenever she chimed it in her clean accent, he just can't stop himself from answering.

January: Juh-co-bee?

Jacob: What?

It's just as simple as that. Often, he is unaware that she had called him that until he reflects on their conversation later on. It reminded Jacob of when he was young and his mother called him 'Jay-bear' and it was an awfully embarrassing nickname but over the years, he had grown accustomed to it. Having no one call him 'Jay-bear' was something Jacob had yet gotten used to.

Juh-co-bee and Janie. He supposes they were quite a pair.

* * *

When January Jansen told Jacob Black that her house was right by the beach, he didn't think that she meant it that seriously, after all, the weather is terrible in La Push anyways, why would you go set up camp down in the fucking beach? With the icy wind and constant dampness and dreary skies, it was more like...people wanted to escape from it.

At least Jacob Black did.

He had ran to her house, an elegant little neighborhood with huge green yards and neat sidewalks, appropriately named 'Oceanside Estates'. He thought the whole landscape was rather comical, for it looked like something straight out of _The Hobbit_. If Jacob ever imagined how the Shire was like, it would've been Oceanside Estates. And January's home would be Bilbo Baggins' cottage.

He wondered if this made him Gandalf by association.

He found colorful Janie sitting Indian-style on her front lawn, her long dark hair billowing in the howling wind. She had on a bright turquoise gypsy skirt that went all the way down to her ankles, recognizable even from half a mile away. Her plain white t-shirt had a 'v' collar and matched her paper-white skin. Its tattered hem rode high on her stomach so that whenever she stretched, it would ride upwards.

When he approached her, cautiously walking a bit closer, he was surprised to find her staring intently at the floor with a sketchpad in her lap and smoking a cigarette. He had found it surprising because she seemed like the 'flower-child' type. The hippies that loved nature and wore tie-dye.

But instead, her ankles were looped with golden bangles. Her fingers, which for the first time, is exposed to the cold as he can see, are slender and pale, each one adorned with a large ring with a gemstone. Her thin wrists are covered with bracelets made of yarn and shells and beads. Every movement she made caused a symphony of sounds.

Jacob felt his mouth go dry. Discomforted, he automatically reaches up to rub his chest, which was beginning to ache again. He was tingly and hot all over. He can't quite explain the oddly satisfying sensation. It was like having fireworks go off inside of you. Or the sun on your skin.

"Janie?" He whispers, sealing the distance between them slowly. He didn't dare raise his voice around her. His booming baritone might shatter her lithe, agile frame.

She glances up, a bit startled, her dove gray eyes are endearing and soft as they focused on him. She shakes away her bangs, tucks her cigarette behind her ear, and smiles up at him. "Hullo, Jacoby."

January Jansen had been drawing a turtle, one that just stood there proudly atop a rock like he owned it, his little tail and his little head sticking out. Examining her sketch, Jacob noticed that it looked nothing like reality. First of all, the turtle's shell was colored coral pink. It's eyes were unusually big and its paws were the size of apples.

He found it cute.

He steps closer and the turtle, sensing his alarming heat probably, shrunk back into its shell hurriedly. January's brows puckered together and her mouth dropped into a frown. She accuses him, "Oh no! You've frightened it!"

He taps at the parchment, "I think _you_ scared it off with this portrait."

She huffs indignantly and pushes herself up to her feet. All her bracelets and rings clacking as she straightened. She retrieves the cigarette from behind her ear and takes a deep puff. As if she was afraid she was being rude, she pulled out another one for him from a rumpled blue packet.

He declines politely.

She leads him up to the house with a smooth beckoning of her arm. She pushes open one of the double French doors gently, slipping into the warm, heated room and Jacob followed. He follows her command to close it after him and stepped into the cozy living room. In fact, her whole house seemed cozy. And everything looked small to him, as if he had just fallen into a real-life version of Alice in Wonderland.

The couches are made with linen, cream pinstriped with cornflower blue. The wooden coffee table is littered with magazines and receipts and spare change. A lamp in the shape of Winnie the Pooh lit up the dim atmosphere. Over to the right is the open kitchen and the dining room consisted of a small glass table. The fireplace cackled occasionally, drowning out the need for a heater.

January leaps to the kitchen with staggering grace, "Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Lemonade? Can I blend you a smoothie?"

Jacob shakes his head, tangled locks flying, "No. It's all right."

Janie looks skeptical, she tilts her head and pulls on her jet-black waves, "You sure?" Her ever-alluring mop of onyx is as savage as ever, spilling wildly over her shoulders like some tumultuous waterfall and her lash-skimming fringe made her appear even more elfin.

Jacob grinned ghostly as his sunken, dark eyes found the electric blue ribbons wove into her hair. He found himself wondering what it would be like to run his fingers through it. Would it be as silky as it looked?

"Yeah," He answers, "I'm sure."

* * *

January Jansen's bedroom is a void. The walls, most of them blank except of splotches of test-colors drew on in thin, long lines. The soft shag is covered with a misty, flimsy cover to prevent the paint from penetrating. Buckets of paint scattered across various corners. Jacob wasn't sure if they were paint for painting or paint for _house_-painting.

A lone, blue mattress sits in the middle like the warm center the rest of the world crowds around. The lemon yellow pillows are cute; the strawberry pink sheets are charming; and the plaid quilt is comforting. There's nothing else except an old, mahogany wood, vanity table.

Jacob thought it looked cozy.

"Well, this is it!" Janie flapped her arms up in the air, whirling. "Now," She bounces over to retrieve a little circular cardboard and sticks it under his nose—well, more like his chest because she's not quite tall enough to reach his nose. It was a color palette. She's chattering animatedly, "I was thinking either this yellow here…you know, this light one, or maybe this orange…how about this light green? What do you think, Jacoby?"

He wasn't sure why she was asking him. After all, this was _her_ room. He felt a little uncomfortable all of a sudden, as if he's starting to get the sense that this isn't such a good idea.

She blinks her tinsel-silver eyes at him and he willed himself to find those ribbons in her hair annoying. He couldn't. He willed himself to walk out of the room. He willed himself to run away, like he did so many times in his lifetime. He couldn't.

All Jacob Black; Jacob Wolfe; Jacob-you're-my-best-friend-and-I-love-you-but-I-love-_him_-more, can do is point to the baby blue slot and pick up a paint roller.

"Do you need a stool?" January asks earnestly, her eyes wide as Jacob was getting ready to start on the ceiling. If she wasn't so silly and innocent, he might've thought she was iffy in the head. But since she is and she just seems so sincere that all Jacob did was nod. And she scurries out of the room.

Once she was out of sight, he could still hear the padding of her feet. It's steady and clumsy. He smiled lightly, the corners of his lips twitching painfully. He extends his arm and leaves a wet, slick trail of blue across the ceiling. The shade is vivid but warming. He checks the tin bucket for a name. _Carolina blue_.

_How fitting_, he muses to himself. He dips the paint roller into the bucket again and touches it to his previous stroke. Biting his lower lip, Jacob scrunches his great brows and concentrates of getting the roof to look even. Occasionally, excess paint would drip down onto his forehead or down his bare chest but he wouldn't care.

When Janie returned with a small wooden stool, he was just about done with the ceiling. She sets it down wordlessly and for a moment, he feels guilty for making her get it when he obviously didn't need it. But then she steps on it herself and grabs a brush.

The walls, she had decided silently, were to be sunflower yellow.

* * *

January Jansen had found it impossible to reach the upper corner of her room. She's standing tiptoe on her stool, arms straining, and shirt lifting. And so, Jacob Black declared it to be his responsibility and painted it for her.

He attempts a laugh, it sounds like a cough. "You shortie."

She turns to him, irritated and flushed. She grins a little then pushes her long hair over her shoulder. Her cheek's smeared vanilla. "I'm perfectly normal. It's you La Push boys. Ya'll are all huge." She frowns, her roller halting in mid-stroke, "What are you? 6'5", Jacoby?"

Jacob gave her a scandalized look. "6'9"." He corrects, sneering, "It's not my fault you're like...three feet."

She chuckles, a crisp chime. "I'm not an elf." She tosses back, her bangs flopping against her forehead childishly. She pulls off all her rings and bangles and sets them on the vanity table. Then she dips her hands into the gooey red paint.

"You look like an elf." He states blankly. He wasn't really sure what prompted him to say this, for he didn't really have a purpose. He supposes this was just another one of those brain farts he's been experiencing with.

But Janie really did look like an elf. She was about three feet tall and weighed maybe fifty pounds. Her hair came curling down to her waist and she was agile with delicate features. Although he's never really seen her with her raven tress up, he was sure that her ears had to be somewhat pointy.

"I'm not an elf." She repeats patiently.

Jacob didn't know what she was doing at first because she was just pressing bloody handprints onto his perfectly colored walls. Yes, _his_ perfectly colored walls. She pressed her palms onto the smooth surface and pressed around in a circle. She drew a long line down to the ground.

Jacob Black blinks. He follows her actions. He dips his hand into pure white paint then pushed his handprint into the wall, repeating until he's formed a circle. The yellow wall providing the perfect center.

They take a collective step back. A blood red poppy and a great white daisy. They matched. And that made Jacob Black smile.

* * *

They worked in silence a lot. But it was a comfortable one. It wasn't that they didn't have anything to say to each other. It was just that they were both comforted by each other's presence. They were at peace.

At least, the man with few words was at peace.

With Janie humming along to some Oldies station on the radio—unfortunately, her dirty rap channel was overcome with static—the whole atmosphere was warm. Warm and cozy. They worked steadily and quickly. Jacob was in charge of painting in general while Janie donned herself in a creative mood and ran streaks of color over his area ever-so often. She entertained herself and Jacob by drawing little pictures.

"What is that?" Jacob's brows knit in confusion. "A snail?"

January looks absolutely offended. She squints at her picture then turns to Jacob, "It's not a snail!" She refutes indignantly. "It's suppose to be you!"

There was a small part of Jacob that's telling him that he's acting like an ass. Yet, for the most part of him, he was insulted. There was no way that unidentifiable blob of color was him. For one, he didn't have three arms. Second of all, he simply wasn't a snail.

"Look at this! He's got your hair...and that's your nose...your eyes..." She outlines the picture for him. "Can't you spot the resemblance?"

Jacob Black tilts his head. Squints his eye. Then closes the other one.

Yeah, he can see it. Sort of. "Um..." He didn't want to lie to her. But he didn't want her to feel bad either. He doesn't know why; he just cared for her feelings for some reason. "A little bit..." He replies hesitantly.

She looks to him, silvery eyes light. She looks to the painting. "Yes," She murmurs in her crisp soprano. Her lips curved as she drew on a wide smile beneath his sunken eyes. "Exactly like you." Janie decides.

* * *

**End Note:**

**I do apologize for the long wait, guys. Really, but with finals week, not to mention the difficulty this chapter was giving me. It was one of those dreaded moments where I simply didn't know how to go on with it, you know? Like...the characters are introduced, plot is in action. I'm sitting back against my chair, feeling pretty damn satisfied with myself until that little cursor blinks and I go 'now what'? **

**So I decided to go with it how I usually approach these situations, which is to write in snippets. I had originally wrote it in this continuous long stream then I decided, 'no, maybe I'm moving too fast' so I shifted back to writing about the grocery store. Then I was like...no, maybe I need to hurry it up so I skipped the house-warming and went directly to them actually developing a growing friendship. It's just a huge, confusing blubbering mess because finally ending with this product, which I'm quite satisfied with. **

**But I hope you guys enjoy this short little 'interlude' kind of and you know, it's the beginning of a beautiful friendship!**

**Question of the day: Where would you like to see Janie and Juh-co-bee go on their first date?**

**--Kitty**


	4. Lonely

**The Man With Few Words**

_"Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets." –Paul Tournier_

* * *

_Chapter Four_

Jacob Black was by no means a people-person.

Perhaps he used to be. Perhaps he wants to be. Perhaps there's something inside of him that tells him...he should be...he needs to be. But he _wasn't_ and that's the truth and that's _that_.

He didn't mean for all of this to happen. The sadness and the loneliness. It's like having ants under your skin or sleeping next to someone who snored. You're acutely aware of it, yet you can do nothing to stop it. That feeling of being helpless. It's almost as bad as the loneliness itself.

Jacob Black tries sometimes. He tries to be normal. He tries to make himself run home and actually _say_ something to Billy. He tries to act like none of this ever happened. Act like..._she_ never existed. Because then, he wouldn't be in this situation; stuck with this problem.

She _gave_ him the pain and the loneliness. She dug out a hole in his heart and planted her own seeds of regrets and sorrow in him. He hated her for it. He hates the way she made him feel.

Impulsive. Sentimental. _Weak_.

But perhaps _anything_, any sort of emotion at all—even that weakness he used to feel—was better than this permanent numbness. Inwardly, he's exhausted and wary from fighting all the monsters inside his mind.

Though on the outside, Jacob Black was stoic. A man who needed no help. Who wanted no help. A man with few words. A man who looked like that a single crease in his handsome face would force him to fall apart.

Jacob Black never told anyone but sometimes...he wishes he could fall apart too.

* * *

Jacob Black cannot—and _did not_, understand why in the world Seth Clearwater was following him.

Well...not really. He has a _clue_ but...all right. He knows exactly why. Embry or Quil or Sam or whoever the fuck that's trying to stick their nose into his business. They sent poor innocent Seth with his youthful attitude and wide smile because the last time they did this, they had made the mistake of asking Paul and thus spent the next week nursing Paul back to health because Jacob had managed to punch his face into his skull.

Quite literally. And without phasing.

Good news: They laid off the spying for a good few months after that. Bad news: Paul made a full recovery.

"What's going on with you, Jacob? I mean...usually, we see you brooding around and throttling people's faces in but it's differently lately..." Seth is rambling in that usual way he does whenever he's nervous and trying to skirt around the main point.

Jacob pretends that Seth is part of the scenery. A buzzing mosquito. Or...a little piece of bark splintered into his foot. Persistent but nothing he can't ignore.

The two werewolves trudge through the woods with a steady stream of one-sided conversation and a sheen of steady rain. Bare-foot and bare-chested, Jacob is reminded of the day he met Janie.

"...It's like...I don't know how to explain it. Like you're—better somehow." Seth doesn't use the word 'happier' because it didn't fit. "Billy says that when you come home sometimes, you go to him. You don't really _say_ anything but, like you know...pop your head in. And everybody sees you a lot more, running around doing God knows what. Which reminds me, what _have _you been doing, Jake?"

January Jansen never called him Jake.

He sticks his hands in his pocket and shrugs. Why was he here? They should know that they're not going to get anything out of him. Especially not when that 'anything' is Janie. He wouldn't give her up like that. She was special to him.

He didn't know why. She just is.

"You just go on missing, sometimes. Like...fall off the grid. You're clearly not phasing because we can't hear you and nobody seems to be able to find you." Seth raises a suspicious brow.

Jacob doesn't respond. Is there even a purpose to all this? Is he being interrogated? Is he a prisoner now? No...at least a prisoner has privacy. He's more like a handicapped child that required supervision at all times. At least, that's how they treat him.

"We can't hear you but...we can _feel_ it, you know..." Seth rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. "Like—you know, your emotions. Everything. When you go missing...it's just like, you're...better." Seth's never had a wonderful vocabulary capacity. "I can feel it...in you..."

Jacob wishes Seth would say 'I' more. Instead of replacing all of the 'I' with 'We' like he usually does. He also wishes that Seth would stop _feeling_ him.

"It's kind of like a buzz." Seth rolls his shoulder and squirms, looking flustered. "A quiver or something. Not like you're happy," He struggles for the right word. A problem Janie never had. "Contented. As if you were fine being where you were and how you were."

Juh-co-bee thinks about Janie. He thinks about her colors and her silly long hair and even about her fascination with ducks. He suddenly craved for her presence. He craved for how she made him feel. Like what Seth said...contented. And warm. And—_better_.

* * *

"Why are we at the _Shop Mart_?" Seth crinkles his nose in confusion. "Do you need eggs or something?"

Jacob was very, _very_ close to telling him to get the hell out of his sight. Didn't he have anything better to do? Some party he can go to? Some popular blonde he's trying to charm instead of a 6-foot-9 angst-ridden teenager? What does kids his age do these days?

He was busy these days. The doors in the house needed oiling. The backyard fences needed to be replaced. And Janie had informed him that she had dropped a ring into the kitchen sink garbage disposal.

"...Guessing you're not coming to the bonfire this weekend, then? You never come anymore, which is really a shame. There are a lot of new kids coming in lately, you know. I like messing with them," Seth's going on about something he'll probably forget the moment he turns around, "...should come. It'll be fun to have—"

Jacob couldn't take it anymore. Good God. Seth was even worse than Paul.

"Go home, Seth." His speech is clearer but his voice's still husky, like how it's always been. He's talking to Janie a lot. And sometimes, when he's feeling wild, like _really_ wild, he'll crack a joke or two.

He doesn't tell the pack this. He doesn't tell anyone this. Maybe that's why Seth looks so stunned right now. His mouth hanging half-open while his eyes sported that attractive 'deer-caught-in-headlights' look.

Jacob has the overwhelming urge to pull out his hair, if only it didn't hurt so much. Inwardly, he's frustrated and angry and he just wanted to be left _alone_. _God, couldn't anyone understand that?_ Although to everyone else, Jacob was the epitome of iciness. Cool and composed, with his fists clenched and his phasers set to 'scowl'.

"_Go home_." He drawls out, a little firmer. The muscle in his jaw worked furiously as he strolled leisurely down the cereal aisle. He grabs Cocoa Puffs to avoid suspicion.

Seth, finally recovering from his little coma, huffs in annoyance. "It's not like I _want_ to be here, you know." Here comes the complaining; the whining. "You don't think I have better things to do? But Sam says that he's worried about you. Can't imagine why though—you're obviously still alive."

Ouch. Since when did little Seth Clearwater become so sardonic?

Jacob just shrugs the insult off. It's easy for him. Letting words roll off his shoulder as if they never touched him at all. He was good at that.

"Tell Sam I'm fine." His lip curls, involuntarily almost, into a sneer. "And tell him to stop sending watchdogs after me."

Seth roars, vindicated.

And Jacob just walks away. And he grins to himself.

* * *

Jacob Black is not sure what the difference is between redwood and cedar.

He means, yeah, they look sorta alike. And well, yeah, the color's different. But, oh wait. What's this? Standard? Premium? Pressure-treated to limit rotting. Why, isn't that wonderful.

Shadowbox. Spaced-Picket. Lattice Top—now that sounds a little dirty. Jacob Black didn't trust a fence with a stripper name. He sets _that one_ back onto the shelf then picks up another. Stockade. That sounds promising.

He looks back at the other ones. Redwood. Cedar. Spaced-Picket.

Then he takes one, lays it horizontally and cracks it loud against his knee. The board snaps in half, swinging up so that it almost catches him straight in the face.

He didn't mean to break it. Honestly. It was just a little test. He...he didn't even hit it that hard!

Jacob stands there for a few moments. Then he looks to his right. Then he looks to his left. Then at the broken board in his hands. The sharp end had splintered into his palm but he doesn't notice until now. Then he hears footsteps, coming towards his aisle.

And he panics.

He hurriedly stuffs the jagged pieces towards the back of the shelf. He takes a few steps back and strikes a thoughtful, pensive pose just as a sturdy man whom he recalls as one of Janie's neighbor come around the corner. The sturdy man nods his chin in recognition.

Jacob nods back.

Then he picks up a stack of the first fencing material he sees and rushes out to the register. He feels like a felon, almost. As if he's just done something incredibly teenager-ish. And he feels proud for it.

But it's not until he's halfway to _Waterside Estates_ he notices that he did end up purchasing Lattice Top after all.

* * *

Jacob Black felt wild. _Particularly _wild after his little stunt. And he donned it an appropriate time to crack a joke.

"_Honey_! I'm _homeee_!" His voice is still void of emotions from years of solitude but still, he thought it was a valiant as he nudges the double doors open with his shoulder before stepping into the tea-cozy house. He makes sure to clean his dirty feet on the 'welcome' mat because it just seemed...wrong to be so unkempt in such an elfin house. As if he's going to end up on the naughty list or something.

Janie had been shuffling about, unpacking and organizing, in a pair of candy-cane colored knee-highs and scarlet shorts. She wore an oversized pullover sweater branded with the 'NYU' insignia. It was purple. And Jacob thought that her entire ensemble made her resemble an Oompa-Loompa.

He kinda liked it.

"Well, aren't we in a good mood today?" Her crisp words are comforting and familiar. It made him feel like he's been holding his breath this entire time and coming here—being here, felt _right_. He settles the Lattice Top against a wall in the foyer.

He liked how Janie doesn't need him to be happy and full of smiles. He liked how she doesn't understand him, yet she accepts him. He liked being with her.

"I got the fences." He announces simply, strolling towards the kitchen and peering down at the garbage disposal. He closes one eye, spotting a small speck glittering near the bottom. He reaches for a pair of tongs.

"That's great. I was actually just thinking about painting them. Maybe yellow, a really pale one, to match the house, maybe?" She's stacking up empty boxes in the living room. Her usually free-flowing river of black hair is knotted into a messy bun by the nape of her neck, held together by a pen, and when she angles her head, Jacob can see a red colored pencil tucked behind her ear. A roll of measuring tape hanging around her neck.

He attempts to wrestle out her ring from the depths of the sink. This is proving to be difficult indeed. Perhaps he should just unhinge the whole thing. He yanks open the bottom cabinet and starts tugging at the pipes.

"—said that the delivery's gonna be made sometime around 2-5. What do you think that means, Juh-co-bee? Does that mean 2 or 5? Is it like a pizza delivery? If it's later than 5, that bed-frame better be free. My back hurts from sleeping on just a mattress." She hoists herself atop a chair to take the width of her window. "I'm starving." She declares ceremoniously.

Jacob pops his head up and juts his chin towards the foyer. "I brought you Cocoa Puffs."

She jots some numbers down on a notepad before leaping off her stool. She staggers for a moment in the usual clumsy grace he's learned to embrace, shuffling out of his sight. When she returns, she's got her hand stuck in the cereal bag and is drifting to rummage through another box.

Then, she's jumping into some elaborate story of how she got her hands on the clock she's currently unpacking. He caught bits and pieces of how there was an argument, some nasty things were said, and also about something that made somebody's ass look like an oil painting.

"What did you do today?" Jacob asks after a lull of silence. He always lets Janie finish her little stories even if he's not really interested in them. He might not know what the hell she's going on about sometimes, but he liked the way she talked.

It's velvety and playful and mellifluous. Not sad and awkward like how it was with _her_. He didn't have to make an effort with January. Make an effort to make her happy or make her laugh. She does that all by herself.

To Jacob Black, that's pretty goddamn miraculous.

"Oh, I slept in today. The rain and the waves help...woke up, blended myself a milkshake then fell asleep again on the couch."

Jacob gives up on disengaging the garbage disposal. Instead, he concentrates on shoving his hand down the drain. It proves to be a difficult task. His hands are too big.

"But I did manage to get a few boxes down. Mostly clothes and bed-sheets and stuff. Nothing of great consequence." He found it comical that she actually phrased her words like that. Like some character out of a Jane Austen movie. When he first discovered she had this little quirk, he told her that he didn't believe people actually spoke like that in real life.

Her reply was, "You obviously don't know many people, then." Which, he supposes is true. So, he just comes to accept that this was part of her. And after a while, he found it endearing, just like the rest of her.

He hooks his index finger around the ring and just then, the garbage disposal turns on. The sharp grinds dug into his skin and Jacob flinches but he doesn't react. He wiggles his hand free and runs it under cold water for a few seconds, watching as the angry wound attempts to knit back together. By the time he's walking towards Janie with her ring in his fist, there's already no evidence of his injury except a red imprint.

"Oh! Come look! I put up the pictures today!" January flies over in a blur of colors and silky hair. Her silvery eyes gleaming like the rain. She motions to him with a wave of her arm, towards a tall wooden cabinet.

Jacob crosses over in one step.

Photos set in crystal frames; in plastic; in macaroni and glitter. They're all there. Ones that are tall as a notebook and there are ones shaped like little seashells. She hung a board on the wall above the cabinet, pinned with Polariods and cropped pictures.

January Jansen introduces him to her family portrait.

"That's mama and daddy." _She looks like her dad_, Jacob notices. They have the same smile, and the same eyes. The same dimple on their left cheek.

"These are my sisters. This is June..." June is pretty in that conventional way. She had long dark hair and bright blue eyes. June reminded Jacob of his own sister, Rachel.

"April." April was blonde. Her eyes are gray like January's and her smile is electric. _She_ reminded him of those women that had a law degree from Harvard and spend their days working for some government office and their nights screwing governors.

"And that's May, right there." May looked a lot like January. Or rather, January looked a lot like May. But it's different...somehow. Jacob doesn't quite know how to explain it. It's like...like if somebody threw May into the washer then dumps her in a dryer and when she comes out two sizes smaller, it would be January.

"Oh, and Jude. That's him, next to me." She taps to a blonde young man with a cunning smile and misty gray eyes. In the picture, he has his arm slung around her. Jacob feels his chest tighten uncomfortably, as if somebody's put their fist inside of him. "He's my brother," She clarifies, lips curling. And Jacob _breathes_. "But I'm older than him by two minutes." She boasts.

Jacob Black supposes you can tell a lot by a person's pictures. Where they were in life. What kind of life they lived. How they were feeling at the time.

Jacob Black supposes that January Jansen used to be different. From the picture of her and her parents at some amusement park, he can tell they're close. Close enough that it should've hurt her to go all the way up to New York for college. From the stiff posture between April and Janie, he can guess they're not the best of friends. Then there's one of her and her brother—Jude, not too long ago. Perhaps half a year. His arm is still draped over her shoulder but there was a...profound depression in January. One that he couldn't really imagine being in her right now. One that he recognizes within himself.

He points to it. He doesn't quite now how to phrase his question. He says simply, "You were sad."

Janie gazes at him through her long, curly lashes, her storm-pale irises flickering for a moment, "Yeah." She agrees, smiling softly. "I can't remember why though."

"That's not true." Jacob blurts. And he feels bad, his tongue is bitter, the odd lingering taste of remorse piercing through his numb senses.

Janie drifts away from him, towards the unopened boxes. She hooks a piece of inky tress behind her ear. She shrugs and grins. "We're all allowed to have secrets, right?"

Jacob blinks, he doesn't press the matter anymore. He turns back to study the board which consists mainly of her time in college. And he frowns as he notices a pattern. A boy. The same boy. Sometimes, it's just him alone, taken in a fond light. Sometimes, him and Janie are together. Smiling. Looking all...happy.

"Who's this?" He demands at once.

January doesn't catch the menacing tone in his throaty voice. Or if she notices, she pretends it's not there. She straightens and tilts her head to catch whom he's referring to. Jacob can't help but disapprove of the shorts she's wearing. They were, well...they were..._short_. He wishes she wouldn't bend over like that.

"Oh!" Her beam seems to stretch, her pretty elfin face lighting up. "That's Peter."

Jacob's sunken eyes land on a framed photograph of the two of them. Janie glides over to join him, picking it up and handing it to him carefully. Jacob was afraid to touch it. Afraid of what he would do once he's got his grip on it.

The picture was the two of them at some beach. The ocean behind them is sky blue, and the sky is white with the blinding sun. There were seagulls there. And Janie had on a frilly white sundress.

She might've been running. Or walking. Or skipping. Then the bastard—whoever he is, and Jacob already has a feeling that he's gonna hate him, had caught her around the waist. And she lets him. She had thread her fingers through his, her hair dancing in the breeze, pretty mouth wide with laughter.

Peter had made her laugh. Jacob fumed. She never laughed like that around him. What was he doing wrong?

"This is when we first started dating." When did Janie start talking? Jacob didn't realize. "We were...17, I think? Yeah. Peter snuck us down to the beach in his dad's truck and we had to drive _all night_ to get there. But of course, we were caught when we got home and daddy grounded me for a whole month. It was okay though, Peter threw rocks at my window."

What does this mean? Were they still dating? If they weren't, why does she still keep pictures of him, then? Should he ask? Would that be rude?

Jacob Black hated the sound of this _Peter_. This _Peter_ that wore his dark hair in an almost girlish manner, with a floppy piece of bangs that always hung beside his eye. Like it's too long so that it's vision-disturbing, but too short to be kept out of the way. This _Peter_ is what comes to the mind when someone mutters 'pretty-boy'. This _Peter_ with his puppy-dog brown eyes and—God. Dear _God_.

Jacob very nearly pukes.

_Peter...__Peter_ with a crooked smile. It made Jacob think of _him_. How _she_ always talked about how much she loved his crooked smile. Jacob's arms shook. He tries to focus on how their smiles were different. _His_ smile always yanked up on one side, almost like a comma in a joke, just before the punch line. And when _he_ smiled, he always gave Jacob that superior look like he's so much goddamn better than he is.

When _Peter_ smiled, there was something weird with his bottom lip. More lopsided than crooked. Like how the rest of his mouth curved except for that bottom left corner so that the right side kind of juts out in this little loop to balance it out. Jacob thought it made him look like he was pouting all the time.

But they were both the same to him. Deceitful and wicked.

All right sure, so this _Peter_ looks more like a puppy-dog than an immortal vampire but—Jacob can still see how he can easily become a _rabid_ puppy-dog.

Jacob glares at the photo, willing it to go up in flames. His chest is burning and it's not that bubbly, comforting feel Janie usually fills him up with. It's angry and rushed, like how your head feels when all your thoughts suddenly crash together. And he must've gripped the picture _just a little_ harder than he should've and it cracks. Right down the middle of the what's-his-name's face.

And January Jansen gives a little holler, looking as if he had just kicked her puppy. He just shrugs.

Jacob Black was by no means a people-person.

**

* * *

**

End Note:

Thank you all for the wonderful feedback! I mean, really, it's incredibly flattering. And it's just great to see so many of ya'll giving this story a chance! I would give shout-outs to all of you but I'm working hard to churn this out and it's nearly 3 AM and I'm half-asleep so we must keep this short and sweet, like our Janie, no?

Anyways, I've decided to get the ball rolling on this and...really just get the action started. As you can see, the pair is blossoming into a beautiful friendship. Sure, we can already spot the bumps and bruises along the way, but I guess you'll already by prepared then.

Lots of you have questions and comments that I would like to touch on since we're discussing the story here:

January is in actuality NOT 3 feet to the wonderful reviewer who asked, who also made me giggle really hard, because that would just be unreal. I mean, she would have to be like a 3rd grader. January's just very small in Jacob's eyes because that's the perspective we see from. I always imagined her to be maybe just exactly at 5 feet, maybe an inch or two higher.

As for the timeline issue: yes, Bella and Edward are married but the whole pregnancy-fiasco has been avoided.

Reviews and feedback are always much appreciated. I love hearing thoughts about characters, what you'd like to see next, what you think is gonna happen, and I think my favorite part is when readers list in their favorite quotes.

Now, question of the day: What do you think of our puppy-dog Peter?

--Kitty


	5. Peter Saint Peter

**The Man With Few Words**

"_Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about seeking whom he can devour." –Saint Peter (Bible, I Peter v. 8)_

* * *

_Chapter Five_

Jacob Black has always been an angry man.

Not like..._angry_-angry. He doesn't want to bash in people's faces, at least not, you know..._all the time_. He just had a short fuse. He supposes its part of the werewolf gene. Something unexplainable and primal. He likes to think that it's something he can't control.

When he first started phasing, he remembers feeling disorientated and shaky. His head was always heavy, like encased in steel, and he can never seem to walk straight. He'd shuffle around, long arms nearly sweeping the floor and drag himself from room to room.

Once in a while, people would talk to him. It could be a casual greeting or maybe even a proclamation of love. Doesn't matter. Anything, absolutely anything at all, will cause him to explode out of his skin and start howling his way towards the blue corn moon.

Billy: You want some eggs?

Jacob: Yeah. Sure, dad.

Billy: Scrambled or sunny-side up?

And he'd phase. Just—_because_. C'mon, Jacob was his son. How could he _not_ know what kind of eggs he preferred? It was like a kind of irrational, delirious kind of anger that made him see red. He's sure he's never felt so provoked in his whole life.

As if every event was the most catastrophic in his life.

It was like somebody trying to set his skin on fire. Or ripping something from inside of him. It's an agonizing sensation of—of as if he's _flipping_ and _turning_ himself inside-out; some old, ratty T-shirt that needed washing.

But that's all over now.

They say that the beginning is always the hardest. Sam had told the barely 16 year-old Jacob that he'd 'get used to it'. And he did, eventually.

He got used to destroying his clothes and being hungry all the time. He got used to how he'll simultaneous sprout fur and claws and other creative shit so it's never a great idea to attend high-school gatherings. Because high-school gatherings tend to include alcohol.

And Jacob had found out through experience that he is _one angry drunk_.

But Jacob Black doesn't think he'll get used to the phasing. The fury and the hatred. The hatred that turns him into a monster. Jacob Black doesn't like being a werewolf. Hell, he doesn't _want_ to be a werewolf.

Yet, he is.

* * *

January Jansen is watching Jacob Black replace her old, crumpling fences with new ones. He can feel her enchanting, silvery eyes on his back and it makes his red-burnt skin tingle.

He tries to ignore the tingle, of course. He tries to ignore all the overwhelming and pleasant emotions she gives him. He tries to ignore the dragonflies in his stomach, their wings beating and humming inside of him. He tries to ignore the dryness in his throat and the heat in his chest.

He doesn't succeed. But still he tries.

"Tell me something," Jacob grits his teeth as he pushes another piece of plank into the soggy dirt. His matted hair is getting wild, flying into his face with the wind and so he ties it up these days, with a string of leather cord. "Tell me something about your family."

Janie's standing beside him for assistance, handing him a tool or two. She's got her hands folded behind her back as she rocks onto her heels. She tilts her head, "Beg pardon?"

"Yeah. Tell me something." He holds his hand out for the hammer and she drops it dutifully into his hand. He pounds the board into the back panel then gives it a firm wiggle, making sure it was secure. He wipes his dirty hands on his jeans before standing up and turning towards her; because her dove-gray eyes were searing a hole into the side of his face.

"Something?" She repeats, unblinking.

"Sure." He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. He reaches for another piece of Lattice Top. And he'll freely admit it, she is quite gorgeous now that he's put her up. And he doesn't wanna be bias or anything, but Janie's fences looks awesome. "Anything. Everything."

He misses her clean, dewy voice. The way she talked.

"I suppose we're a pretty ordinary family. We're a big family. So it's always loud in the house," That's all the prompting needed to get Janie to jump into the conversation. And Jacob can feel the knot inside of him loosen as she talked, "I told you that daddy's a professor. But he was like—a fascist professor. He used to make me spell words out of my alphabet soup..."

Jacob feels at peace. Not scorching and agitated like he usually is, but rather warm and comforted. He lets her words wash over him, the smoothness of her speech and her rhythm of her staccato. And he works at a steady pace.

And he lets her distracts him with her wonderful stories and her silly, long hair. Her colors and her eyes and her awkward grace.

"June works in a day-care center now." She's wiggling her toes into the dirt, strands of her wispy bangs falling to skim her lashes. "I'm not surprised. Well, not really. She's always been good with kids. She used to baby-sit Jude and I a lot when we were kids. Daddy would tell her, 'June, you're in charge until I get home' and he'd tell us all to behave ourselves. But as soon as his car leaves the driveway, we'd all run wild. June always tries to keep order, but Jude's the neighborhood troublemaker, running around and causing havoc." Janie looks fragile and breakable with her NYU sweater falling over her snow pale shoulders. "But I'd just crawl up to the roof or lay on the grass. And I'll just...watch. And I'll _breathe_."

Jacob smiles.

Because January was just so calm and so _magical_ to him. She was his escape. Here, he doesn't have to worry about the fury or the hatred. He doesn't have to worry about being a monster or about the loneliness or _her_.

Here, he's whoever he wants to be.

He can be _different_. He can be _more_. He can be _better_.

"April tells me that I'm a dreamer." Her bright gaze dims a little, but Jacob can still sense it—the tenderness. "She went to Duke, like daddy wanted. Poli-sci major. Living it up in Washington." She shrugs her little, round shoulders, "Last time we talked, she's running for Congress and dating the Senator of Georgia."

Jacob notices she's fallen silent, an uncomfortable lull in the air. He asks, "What about your other sister?"

And she starts again, "Oh. May's like a carbon copy of my father. Looks like him. Operates like him. Talks like him..."

He angles his head and indulges in a grin, there's still a stiffness around his cheeks, but it doesn't bother him anymore. "Then there's you."

She nods, looping her arms around herself. A chill was starting to pick up. "Uh-huh. Jude and I have always been the rebellious ones in the family. We were twins, after all. Jude went the obvious way, sneaking out and selling mama's favorite vase for concert tickets."

Jacob raises a brow. He attempts a laugh. "It's hard to imagine you as a rebel." It was probably because she was so small. And so _elf-like_. How do you rebel when you're an elf? You don't. You don't see Santa's workshop going on hiatus because of an elf-rebellion.

She beams, dimple quirking, "Well. I wasn't exactly _hardcore_ or anything. But there was a phase, you know. Everybody has a phase." Yes, Jacob knew _all _about _that_. "I wore short skirts and talked to boys. And daddy nearly had my head."

"Don't all girls do that? I wouldn't really call that rebelling."

January's silvery irises sparked, "I had a nose ring for 3 weeks." She confesses, eyes wide.

And Jacob laughs. A real laugh. A loud, riotous that shot out of his chest like a bullet. When January had the nerve to look scandalized, he tries to hide it; suppress it. But it just felt so damn good to laugh again. But it was like he didn't realize that until now. Like he's been miserable all this time and he didn't even know it.

"It's not funny," Janie cries, "It was horrible. I tried to hide it at first. I told my parents that I banged up my nose really bad on the door and put a Band-Aid over it. But then mama found out and she made me take it out." She remembers sadly.

"How devastating." He responds, digging another fence into the dirt. The ghost of a smile playing on the edge of his lips. His hair is escaping from their hold, drifting in the breeze. Even his chest feels lighter.

Janie perks up, "I told her I hated her."

Jacob nods solemnly, "That'll show her."

Her charcoal irises are now dazed. She rests her chin in her hand, watching him as he punches in another piece of Lattice Top. The silence is nice, this time. And neither January Jansen or Jacob Black minded it.

He continued with his work. He'd dig a little hole where he's going to put the fence. Insert the board. Bury the little hole. Then he leans it against the panel in the back, and Janie hands him a hammer, and he nails it into place.

It worked fine. Their little system. Both of them lost in their thoughts. Lost in the present.

"Did I ever tell you I was a cheerleader?"

Jacob looks back to face her, his brows lightly furrowed. She's staring at him intently, appearing very serious. He licks his lips, "I don't think so." She just blinks up at him. He asks, "Why?"

"Oh." She blinks again, almost as if she hadn't expected him to answer. She frowns, "Have you ever...done something you really loved but then one day, just—stop? Not because you stopped loving it but like, you just didn't know how to continue anymore?"

It's Jacob's turn to blink. He isn't sure how to respond. He isn't sure what to say. He considers for a moment telling her about _her_. About how she broke him. About the hole she left him with and all the broken pieces.

"No." The man with few words says.

January shakes her head, "Yeah. I'm just being silly. I was just...I don't know..." She tries again, "I thought..."

Jacob Black thought she looked so sad. So sad and fragile sitting there with her ink black tress and pretty, pretty mouth. And he's struck by a bout of awkwardness. He was never too great with words. He clears his throat and in his desperation, blurts, "Tell me about _Peter_."

He wanted to bite himself. Because it was just a stupid thing to say. He didn't want to hear about this _Peter_. He didn't want to know all the cute, adorable things he did to woo her. He just wants to forget the fact _Peter_ even existed.

But January is looking too beautiful for him to change his mind.

"Peter?" She cups the back of her neck with one hand, looking a bit bashful. "I've known Peter since I was 6. The first time I met him was when a bunch of boys pushed me into the mud during recess—"

"—And he was the boy that pushed you? And you hated him?" He interjects. He hopes that didn't come out sounding too hopeful. Even though he is.

Janie twirls with the rings on her hand absently, "No. He's the boy that came to help me up, actually. Peter's always been the good guy. My brother's actually the one that pushed me, now that I think back at it." She smiles dreamily, "We've always been friends, I suppose. He's Jude's best friend, but I've always thought he was pretty."

Jacob remembers the picture. Remembers _Peter_'s dark hair, brown eyes, and lopsided smile. Like some wounded puppy. Girls love wounded puppies.

"He's shy, you know. I thought I was going to be 50 by the time he gathered the guts to ask me out." January peers at him through her butterfly lashes, "It was junior prom. He went to my father for permission," She rolls her eyes playfully, "He was always kinda girly like that."

The burning under his skin turned up a notch. The feeling of somebody had just stuck a torch into his chest. He squirms, he can't help it. The brain farts. "Are you still dating him?"

Janie reaches into her hair to pull out the pen she's kept in there, shaking out her curtain of onyx tress. It spilled over her shoulders, drifting down to her narrow waist. She looks even smaller somehow.

"No." She replies simply. Her grin turns hazy again, "But he's still very pretty."

Jacob is hesitant, an emotion he rarely experiences. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other as Janie picks a wildflower up from the ground and tucks it behind her ear. She's telling him something. Something about how Jude used to always put flowers in her hair.

Jacob interrupts, "You miss him." He blurts. She seems confused by his outburst, so he clarifies, "_Peter_. You miss him." Now she looks surprised. But oh, he knew he was right. He knew from the way her silvery eyes kind of go out of focus and the way she bites down on her bottom lip. She _loved_ this _Peter_.

She nods, tucking her chin into her neck, "Yeah. I miss him a lot." She grins, "But I've got you now, Juh-co-bee."

Jacob tries to ignore the way his ribcage blazed. So he just installs the last plank of Lattice Top. He gives her the ghostly smile he saved just for her. And calls Janie for the hammer.

* * *

Jacob Black knew that this wasn't going to work.

He supposes he knew from the moment he found January on the trail. This little..._friendship_ of theirs wasn't going to have a happy ending. It just wasn't going to fly.

He means—what is he thinking? That they'll just become buddy-buddy? That they'll develop something more than a companionship? He doesn't know what he wants. And he doesn't know what January wants.

He doesn't know how to be without her though. And he hasn't seen her in a week. And there's this throb in his chest, near his left shoulder. And he's angry.

All. The. Time.

"Jake! What are you still doing here? It's your turn to patrol."

What? What was that? _Who_ was that? He angles his head slowly, mind still foggy with pensive thoughts and images of January. Oh, it's Quil. It's just Quil. He turns back to the television. It's showing an infomercial for blankets. Snuggies.

How cute.

"What the hell is wrong with you? You never miss patrol duty. Are you sick? What's going on? C'mon, man. Talk to me."

He doesn't want to talk. Why can't anybody understand that? That there's nothing to say? Nothing to cry about? Nothing for him to feel. Why can't they just leave him alone? God, he just wants to be alone.

Quil settles cautiously on the arm of the couch and he stares at Jacob in a way that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt, "Is this about how we sent Seth after you? We don't really mean to spy. We're just worried, man. But you seemed to know what you're doing so we didn't press on, but now it's like you're back to moping again..." Quil trails off.

Jacob blinks. Moping? Oh yeah. He does do that a lot. Doesn't that mean they should be used to it by now? Why is Quil here again? Oh right. Patrol. Is it his turn already?

"Patrol. Okay." He murmurs distantly, pushing himself up from the comforts of the couch. _January's sweater is still there_. Something in the back of his mind is keeping close tabs on her. He can't control it. _He should return it._

"Don't bother. I already covered for you." Quil splays himself across the sofa, occupying the space he just vacated. His big, deep eyes are droopy, "Your shift is exhausting. Really, I mean. It's like the graveyard shift. I had to run into a tree a couple times just to stay awake."

It's five in the morning. Jacob notes that it is indeed the time his patrol would end. Jared should be taking over now.

He runs a hand through his tangled hair and pinched the bridge of his nose. His head is pounding. And his eyelids burned, but whenever he closed them, all he can see is January in her frilly sundress from that photograph by the ocean.

And so, Jacob nudges Quil's body towards the back of his couch and fished his hand between one of the cracks. His fingers touched on the soft rumpled material and gingerly pulls out the cardigan. He shakes it for good measures, dusting out the wrinkles. It smelled enchanting.

Flowers and the ocean.

"Where are you going?" Quil's sleepy voice is heavy and Jacob considers, for a moment, to tell him what's going on. What he's feeling. What he's going through.

But then he just runs out the door.

* * *

He knocks on the door. Restless and frantic knocks. He slams his palm onto the mahogany wood and presses the doorbell with his other hand. He peeks through the windows and he frowns.

What was going on? Why wasn't she answering? Was she mad at him? He pursed his lips together. His insides were all knotted. And his neck feels hot...his face too. And he suddenly just feels _stupid_. What the hell was he doing here? _Why_? Didn't he agree with himself that he needed to leave her alone because this friendship thing is going nowhere?

His cheeks are scalding. As if he had just committed a terribly embarrassing act. As if he's blushing.

But he's _not_ blushing. Why would he blush? There isn't even anyone here. And Jacob hasn't blushed since the days of _her_. When she _made_ him blush with her miserable beauty and her electrifying voice and her delicate—elfness...wait—who was he talking about again?

"Jay-cub?" One of the double doors has been pulled open. But just by a sliver. And January Jansen peeks her head out. Her long, raven hair is tousled and is furling around her slender waist. She looks bone-pale under the dark sky, lavender almost. Like her cardigan. And her smoky eyes are glassy, like she's looking at him but not really seeing him.

She's sleepy.

"Yeah." He responds awkwardly. The flame on his face brightened and he thanks God for the cover of the night. He shifts his weight, lowering his voice, just because he feels that if he spoke regularly, she would break under the volume, "I'm...I'm sorry, but it's just—"

She rubs her bleary eyes, mussing up her childish bangs unintentionally, "Yeah. No, it's all right. Wh-what are you doing here?"

He rests a hand on the doorframe and he checks over his shoulder. He knew there wasn't anyone there, but he just needed a thought to keep him occupied. His fingers found their way into his disheveled locks and he thrusts the sweater towards her, "It's, um, it's yours. From the day we met. On the trail. I-uh, I came to return it."

She takes her cardigan from him slowly. She doesn't question him for his odd timing or the fact that he seemed like he was trying to mug her house at 5:30 in the morning. She just stands there, pretty and magical as always.

"Thank you." She trills. Her voice isn't as clear as usual, but rather a kind of muffled airiness, yet still like velvet.

Jacob gives a curt nod. He bounces on the heels of his feet, his stomach is a tight, nervous coil. She doesn't invite him in. And he makes no move to enter. They stand there, still and silent. Jacob didn't care much for this silence. He wishes she would say something.

But she doesn't.

She just continues stand there. Looking all small and delicate and deliciously bedraggled.

Jacob wets his lips. He swallows as she waits, and he confesses, "I had to see you." It came out as a frayed murmur. Heated but rushed. It sounded as if all his words had blended together and his voice had cracked in the middle of 'to'. He feels the need to try again, so he repeats, stronger this time, "I had to see you. I had to see you, January."

Her calm, placid expression doesn't falter. She gazes up at him with her stormy eyes, neck slightly craned because of his height, both hands remaining on the doorknob. Her brows crease, just a little, and she frowns faintly.

"I'm sorry." She apologizes.

It wasn't a 'I'm sorry but I don't understand what you're talking about'. Nor was it a 'I'm sorry but this is kind of weird of you'. It was just a 'I'm sorry that you feel that way'. Not filled with rejection or regret; sincere and innocent.

"I…" Jacob pauses to shove his hands into his pockets because they were shaking. "I can't stop thinking about you." He admits at last. And suddenly, the burn—the blush is back. The heat rolling around in his chest and the dragonflies in his stomach. It's all coming back.

But January doesn't blush. She doesn't seem surprised or even react.

"I'm sorry." She repeats.

Jacob swallows again. His throat is tight and his mouth is dry. "I thought that we could do something together. _Talk_."

January shuffles forward. She's wearing fuzzy slippers in the shape of turtles. And black wooly stockings that went up to her thigh. The collar of her green pinstriped button-down is soft and worn, and much too boyish to be a woman's. She's still wearing those indecent shorts of hers though.

She brushes her long, messy hair behind her ear. She tilts her head, a familiar movement, "Talk?" She asks, as if the meaning is foreign.

"It's what normal people do, isn't it?" Jacob answers wryly.

Janie pauses. She scrutinizes him in a way only Janie can. Just by blinking and looking elfin. It's frightening. And Jacob always feels like she's playing some sort of Jedi mind-trick on him. Her brows un-furrow themselves, and she beams. "That's a joke, isn't it?"

He smiles a little, angling his head towards the rosebush in her front yard. She's a little too enchanting for him right now. A little too familiar. "Yeah, it is, Janie."

She nods. Then shrugs. "Okay," She agrees softly. "Why don't you come tomorrow? And we can..." She bites the inside of her cheek. Her pale fingers are tangled in her dark waves when her silvery eyes danced, "And we'll get drunk."

Jacob raises a brow.

"Yeah," She prattles, confident. "That's the best way to get to know someone, isn't it? Get wasted. We'll buy a bunch of liquor and get smashed here—just so we don't make complete fools out of ourselves. We'll drink and smoke and..._talk_."

Jacob is skeptical. He thought they were going to eat pizza.

But when January Jansen gives him a charismatic sloppy grin, he knew he had caved. Because everything about her was so sloppy. Her ruffled clothes and tangled hair and muted voice.

"All right," says Jacob Black and he slinks back down the porch, letting January retire back to the depths of her tea-cozy house and _Alice in Wonderland _dreams.

He laughs, because for a second, he thought that this had been the most catastrophic event of his life.

* * *

**End Note:**

**It's SHOUTOUT time!**

**To 'Morning-Sunset' who is wonderful and beautiful for leaving reviews that always make me think and make me laugh. To 'LaughingAngelsGibberish' who has been with me since the beginning of the story, I suppose and who's awesome for sticking by me. To 'jacobblackismineduh' for reviewing ALL 4 chapters AT ONCE! WOAH, girl! You rock. But for the record, Jacob is mine. To 'Fairy skull' who tells me she can't wait for more, which encourages me to write more. To 'JusTheUnderdog' who wrote me this fantastically long review that left me giddy for hours, and of course dearie, you may take anything from me--that sounds a little dirty, doesn't it? But if MWFW inspires you, go ahead and let it because it inspired me as well. To 'missy' who fell in love with this story, and made me fall in love with her. And to 'Ra'iira The Fiend' who told me to sex her. So, let's sex. **

**And a little bit about the story, would be the imprint issue. I am wary and hesitant on it because it's really such a sensitive issue. I mean, yeah, it is part of the werewolf complex. And yeah, the idea of it is quite romantic--shifting gravity and the earth standing still and love until you die. But! It's hard to write about. The whole subject of it, without coming off as a cliche. Or perhaps I'm just a sucky writer. I've always wanted January and Jacob to have a very...natural progressing in their relationship. With all the strains and all the efforts of being a real couple. **

**As for the question of Peter, when I asked you guys, most of you guessed that he was dead. And that's when I though, wow, we're a rather morbid bunch, aren't we? But most of you seem to enjoy the idea of Peter (it's because he's pretty, innit?) but I REALLY became enthralled by the whole characterization of him. Actually, I started writing a little piece...a companion fic of sorts, about the nature and adventures of Peter and January. And if you guys are interested, drop a line for me in the review, and I'll try to work it out and publish it. It's definitely a different dynamic compared to Janie and Jacob but still rather enchanting. **

**Question of the day: If you had to choose a song for January and Jacob, what would it be? And exactly how drunk do you think they'll get?**

**--Loves, Kitty.**


	6. Cheerleader Jan

**The Man With Few Words**

"_If you know someone who tries to drown their sorrows, you might tell them sorrows know how to swim." –H. Jackson Brown Jr._

* * *

_Chapter Six_

Jacob Black wouldn't go as far as calling himself a 'ladies man'.

Because he wasn't. Not really.

He's trying on a shirt currently, fiddling with the shirt-tails to make sure they're even. This is a miraculous occasion, seeing as how Jacob had given up wearing shirts a _long_ time ago. It was a useless article to have, in his opinion. Because he knows that he'll just eventually burst out of it or have it torn off him in one of Paul's many temper tantrums. It's not like he needs it either, he runs at one-hundred and ten degrees these days.

But he wanted to look nice. Even if it is just for one day.

A voice in the back of his mind reprimands, _"You're going to get a cold sooner or later. Always wandering around half-naked." _A clear voice that sounds a lot like Janie's.

He finishes up the last button on his shirt and tilted his head in front of the mirror. _God_, he looked horrendous. And what was this? _Plaid_? What was he thinking? He rips it off with a vengeful passion, ignoring the clattering of the buttons as they fell to the floor.

His head was pounding and his stomach's doing these weird flip-flops inside of him. His heart would beat really fast, then really slow. And he thinks he's starting to cold sweat.

It takes Jacob a few moments to realize that he was nervous.

He tries to scoff at himself. What did he have to be nervous about? The fact that this is his first date? No. Psh, of course not. He's been on a date, before. Did he? He can't remember. What about...no. _No_. He stops _that_ train of thought before it starts. He wasn't going to think about _her_. Not at a time like this.

When was the last time he's been with a girl? A girl that wasn't Leah.

The question takes himself by surprise. This was indeed a very good question. Jacob has to blink a few times. He massages his temples, racking his brain. He has a blurry image of a girl from a nearby high school. She was a brunette and they always made jokes about him being younger than her. He remembers they rode bikes together. Oh no, wait. Wait. That was..._fuck_.

He shakes his head. _Never mind_.

Oh. Then there was the young woman in Argentina. He had met her when he was on the run. He had been depressed and desperate, devouring bottles after bottles of tequila. Until his stomach ached and churned and he was seeing double.

His memory of the incident is fuzzy at best. But he distinctively recalls starting a bar fight. He can still feel the glass on the broken tumbler digging into his palm. And the flower of pain that bloomed across his jaw when some burly Argentinean's fist connected with it. The crack of his bone, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He had swung back, but missed. Then there was a small, warm hand on his arm, tugging him out of the rowdy bar.

In the dark of the night, she had the most shimmery hair and the smoothest, olive-toned skin. She took him to a storage room of some kind and sat him down. She wiped the blood from his nose and set his jaw right again. She was nice and when he awkwardly mumbled, "Gracias," she gave him a tentative smile, which is bright against her dark complexion.

He doesn't remember much about her or that night except for the fact that she didn't speak a lick of English and so she had trouble pronouncing his name. He's pretty sure she called him 'Jose'. And he's pretty sure he had kissed her. Or...she had kissed him. And then—well, he was 17. And he was drunk. And she had been pretty.

He honestly can't say nothing happened. He can't say something did either. He simply...doesn't remember. But whatever happened that night—or whatever didn't happen, Jacob Black doesn't regret it.

He just regrets never having the chance to learn her name.

* * *

He ends up showing in front of January's door shirtless. As always.

His plan to appear presentable was deemed impossible because there was just no way to wear a shirt without feeling like a completely nerded-up ass. He's been a wolf for too long. Been bursting out of his skin and running one-hundred and ten degrees for too long.

He knocks.

There's some shuffling. A crisp, "Coming!" Was trilled, followed by clumsy footsteps. Then the door is unlocked, unhinged by an inch or so. Through the thin gap, he spots Janie's retreating back, so he takes it as a sign to let himself in.

He does.

She had cleared the living room, pushed the couch towards the kitchen and moved the coffee table to the side. She's throwing pillows haphazardly onto the floor when she turns and greets, "Hey." She smiles, nudging a beanbag closer to the roaring fireplace with her little feet. Then she blinks at him with surprise, "Where are the drinks?"

Jacob tenses. He's standing stiffly in the foyer, hands stuck in his pockets and his stupid hair tied back. "Uh," His brows tried to raise and wrinkle at the same time. It hurt. "I-I don't...I'm not," He stammers for a couple more seconds before managing meekly, "I'm not old enough."

Janie tosses him an arched brow look that would've annoyed him if she weren't Janie. She sticks her hands onto her hips, "That's a joke, isn't it?"

Jacob strides into the living room with two steps, then plops down on a beanbag. He shrugs and wiggles a little, trying to get comfortable. "No." He responds dully, "Why? How old did you think I was?"

She squats in front of him and it scares him. How close she was. Her lashes are really long and her eyes are gleaming silver. And she smelled mesmerizing. She bites on her bottom lip pensively and she grins, "Old enough." She murmurs through her pretty mouth.

He swallows. Not because he was _nervous_ or anything, but just because his throat went dry. He shakes his head in an effort to clear his mind. It doesn't work; not really. "I'm 19." His voice has gone hoarse all of a sudden. His age was something he could've gone his whole life without telling her because—technically, he doesn't age. And technically he's 16 forever. He could've just let her assume however old she thinks he is but there was something inside of him, that crawling sensation in his chest that told him...he wanted her to know. He wanted her to know about him. These useless, trivial facts that were...insignificant. But the insignificance wouldn't matter to him anymore, because now she knows.

January's button nose is scrunched. She complains loudly, "Dear God. I'm four years older than you." She's twenty-three. Twenty-four in just three months. He's blinking rapidly in surprise because she was so _tiny_. Her lips curve and her dimple quirks, "I assumed you were older than me. Twenty-seven...somewhat."

He inclines back into his seat, because their proximity is making his blood rush. "Why would you assume that?" He asks slowly.

She shrugs, "Same reason you assumed I was younger." She makes box-shapes with her hands. Her _tiny_ hands. "Because I'm small. And you're—huge."

Jacob blanched, "You-you're not just small! You're hobbit sized!"

January ignores him. She straightens and ambles into the foyer, muttering something about finding her purse. Her midnight hair fluttered with her every movement, laced with crimson silk ribbons. She reminded him of those little dolls his sister used to keep in her room. Rachel never played with them, because they were so neat with their hair and dresses. She'd just put them up on her bookshelf and _look _at them. Jacob never used to understand that, until now.

Janie in a short sky blue dress and red stockings pulled up past her knee. She looked like Dorothy. Dorothy is cursing because she can't seem to remember where she placed her ID. Somehow, he can't imagine Judy Garland cursing.

Jacob is gravitated towards the tall, wooden cabinet. Gravitated towards all the pictures and all the history that's there. He picks up, more cautiously than the first time around, the cracked image of _Peter_ and January. He cocks his head. They had looked so—_happy_. It sickened him.

"Is that one your favorite?" Janie's question comes from right behind him and he jumps out of his skin. Not literally, of course. That would be bad. But he gives this little yelp and almost drops the goddamn thing.

He sniffs haughtily, "No."

Janie laughs, a musical sound. She pushes her tousled hair behind her ear, looking very demure. "Ah," She traces the sharp planes of _Peter_'s boyish face. "You just seem very _attached_ to that picture." A single brow arches expertly, "You haven't developed some fetish for my ex-boyfriend, have you? I always knew he's far too pretty for his own good." She must've caught Jacob's perplexed expression because she indulges in another lazy, sultry smirk, "Well, I'm heading out to the liquor store. Any special requests?"

Jacob doesn't know why, but he thinks back to the nameless woman in Argentina. He swallows and tells January, "Tequila."

If she detected the hint of ruefulness in his voice, she doesn't comment on it. Instead, she reaches towards the back of the cabinet and pulls out a photo framed with black-wood, obscured from view by the rest of the collage. Jacob hadn't even noticed it was there.

She hands it to him with a roguish grin, "Perhaps you'll find this one more appealing." And then she was gone.

Jacob tries that eyebrow-raising trick she does and fails tragically. He stares down at the picture instead. Jacob Black is not amused.

_Peter_ is standing against the sun, which is so bright that you couldn't tell where the background is. He's wearing a dark overcoat that went down to his knees. His girlish hair, dark and mussed, is wet, as if he's just trudged through the rain. He's half-turned, one arm extended towards the photographer, a shy lopsided smile on his face, as if somebody had just called his name.

There's writing on the clear pane of the picture. A looped cursive in black Sharpie.

_For when you're sad. Love, Peter. _

Jacob Black hides the picture in one of the cabinet drawers.

* * *

January Jansen arrives home to a truly horrifying development. Jacob Black had discovered her yearbook. He's leafing through it very carefully, absorbing every little detail and every little caption. He had found it in the drawer where he hid _Peter_'s picture.

"What are you doing with that?" Janie's tone is accusing and her usually snow pale cheeks are flushed. He can't quite tell rather it's from the cold or from embarrassment. Whichever it was, red suited her.

"You were quite the home-town favorite." He taps the awards page. "Most popular. Best smile. Most caring. Biggest flirt." He makes a show to appear bewildered. "Oh, your brother's most athletic. And most likely to take over the world, did you know that?" She's blushing now. He's positive. "My head is spinning from all the Jansens." He comments dryly.

Jacob thinks that when he graduated, he was voted 'Most Likely to become a Serial Killer'. Oh yeah. He was amused by that. He's pretty sure his pack was too.

Janie's fiddling with the grocery bags in the kitchen, and she lifts her shoulders into a half-hearted shrug, "It was high school." She offers simply. She's rifling through the kitchen when she asks casually, "Who was the best couple?"

Jacob scans the page, reciting loudly, like an announcer would at a baseball game, "Peter Petrelli and January Jansen." His eye twitched in annoyance. The alliterations of their names made his skin shudder.

Janie laughs. She wanders back to the living room, bottles clanging inside a paper bag, and holding two little shot-glasses. Her brows knit together in concentration, "I believe he was voted Best Looking too." She smiles, "Just in case you're interested." She curls a spidery leg under her and sits down next to him.

He ignore the jab and settles for a blank look, "I wouldn't have taken you for the cheerleading type."

She tilts her head, her curtain of onyx waves tumbling over her shoulder, a few strands tickled Jacob's arm. "I was really good at it, can you believe that?" The question was rhetorical, but Jacob still nodded. He can see it. Little January whooping and shouting. She shakes her head as if to clear the cobwebs of her memories, "How about you? What were you like in high school?"

Janie cracks open a bottle of tequila and pours them each a shot. He picks it up dubiously. The elfin girl had already leaned forward to smash their glasses together and knocked back her first shot. He follows. His throat burned and his eyes watered as he grimaces. Janie laughs at him.

Jacob frowns. He strains to remember. It seems too long ago since his life's been normal. He can barely hang onto what it was like before the phasing. It's all kind of out-of-focus and mystifying. Like he's looking back at a life that wasn't his.

He reaches into his jean pocket and pulls out his keys. He hands it to her with a quiet grunt of dismay. Little January takes it from him, fingers tracing a small picture frame hooked onto the silver ring. It's a photo from his first day in high school. Him and Billy. Billy in a wheelchair and him standing behind his father.

He's wearing a plaid shirt. He's wearing cargo shorts. He's wearing—for fuck's sake, _glasses_. It had been something minor. Near-sightedness. Nothing too extraordinary, in fact, Jacob could see fine without his glasses. It just made reading the whiteboard easier, so it's always been more of a 'why not' situation. And so Jacob Black is almost ashamed to admit that he trudged around with those thick frames for nearly two years.

He stopped wearing them after he met _her_, of course. And then when the phasing started, his vision was corrected and so naturally, he had ditched those suckers for a manlier look.

January's giving him an incredulous look. She snickers, "You looked like Peter Parker."

His purses his lips together, offended. Then he gives an irritated snort, partly because of her choice of comparison and partly because he was sensitive about his past, goddamn it! Stiffly, he informs her, "That's just the way I was."

He pours himself another glass. He drinks it. He coughs.

She chuckles, examining the picture with such a critical gaze that made him want to snatch his keychain back. "Well, you looked like Peter Parker." She declares with a tone of finality. "In plaid, of course. Is that your father?"

"Hm-hmm." He grunts, still a little annoyed that she thought he held resemblance to Spiderman. No, not Spiderman. Spiderman's pathetic alter ego.

Janie had stretched all three feet of herself onto the floor. She rolls over to rest her chin onto her hands. Staring at him with her glittering eyes, she prompts, "I kinda want to see you like that."

Jacob is confused. His long fingers wrap around the clear bottle as he fills his tumbler. "Like what?" He asks. He had forgotten how good alcohol feels. Like it can numb everything. Stop all the pain.

"Like that!" She taps to the photo. "All nerded up."

He has to admit, she looks awfully tempting. With her pretty, sloppy grin and her silly, tangled hair. It looks so silky and so...dark. And her eyes are silvery like tinsels. And...and dear God, he thinks he's drunk already.

"No." He declines, in what he hoped to be a firm voice. In an afterthought, "I doubt you have plaid, anyways."

"Yeah, I do." She scrambles to her feet, "Some of Jude's old stuff. And you can have my out-dated glasses." She must've spotted the '_you're deranged_' look he's sporting because she elaborates, "C'mon! It's not really getting drunk unless you do something crazy. This is supposed to be therapeutic. We're supposed to be _talking_ about our past. It only fits."

He shoots her a pointed look, "You wanna play dress-up?" He drawls, "Go put on your cheerleading uniform, then we'll talk."

She tries to wiggle her way out of it, "I don't have that old thing anymore."

It's Jacob's turn to chuckle. Of course, it sounds more like wheezy gasps, but he jerks his head towards the cabinet, "Second drawer. I saw it when I found your yearbook."

January gives him her best glare. Which, is kind of feeble. He means, even _her_ glare had been more effective. Janie's consisted of her squinting her charcoal irises and fighting the curving twitch of her lips. Then she marches, very determined, and yanks out the scarlet uniform. "Fine." She agrees.

Jacob is stunned and for a moment, he doesn't know what to do. He hadn't expected her to give in so easily—or at all. But then he stands up, running the back of his hand self-consciously over his jaw. "I have to shave." He mutters to her, stumbling towards the bathroom.

Janie's using her thumb to trace over the branded letters 'RHS'on her old uniform. "Why?" She questions distractedly.

He answers back, just as lost as he has been in the past, in the days of _her_, "Because it wouldn't really be Bella's Jacob unless I shave."

* * *

They find themselves in an odd predicament.

Jacob felt as if he had fell through a time warp of sorts, transporting him back to four years ago. His eyes is all too aware of the present, but somehow, in his mind, he's back to the gawky, lanky high schooler, a past he had only been eager to leave behind. Back to Jacob before the phasing. Back to Jacob, the smiling best friend.

He's wearing a disgusting brown plaid shirt and January's old specs, which are thick black framed and much too small for his wider face. And he couldn't see a damn thing through them. And January's sitting there on the floor, nursing a bottle to her chest and wearing a cheerleading uniform.

Jacob was right. She did look good in red.

She's drinking straight from the bottle when she sarcastically apologizes, "Sorry. No pom-poms."

He can feel her eyes on him, because his face is burning up something fierce. He averts his attention to wiping the spectacles convulsively with his hideous shirt, "Can't see..." He grumbles. He wants to run his hand through his hair but refrained, which has been combed and neatly parted, just like how he used to do it. His jaw is smooth, free of the subtle layer of stubbles coated there.

He feels all exposed and vulnerable.

Janie holds out her hands for the glasses. He drops it into her open palm. Biting down on her bottom lip, she pops out the lenses with her thumb then hangs it back onto his ears. Jacob grunts, irritated once again. More _Peter Parker_ than ever.

"Isn't this a little pointless?" He asks aloud. He's situated next to the fireplace, gulping out of his own bottle. Because he's already starting to get tipsy and he can't quite find it in him to pour into glasses anymore. He'd miss, he's sure.

"It's all part of the effect, isn't it?" She answers back blankly. "You don't expect me to do cheers, do you?"

He gives a shrug. He takes another drink to avoid responding. He tips his head back, and just for a moment, he could swear he could see _her_. Her beautiful face, her long brown hair, and that pained smile...imprinted into the ceiling. In his mind, she's scolding him.

So Jacob beams back, happy to have disappointed. And takes another swig.

* * *

January is just about finished with her second bottle of Jose Cuervo when she starts the cheers.

Jacob's long body is slouched in a way that would've hurt his neck if he were conscious enough to notice it. He's covering half of the living room and the left side of his face was scorching from the heat radiating from the fireplace. His body is warm and humming. His entire brain is humming in fact. Like he's all a-quiver.

"Okay...so there was this one—it was like...our signature. We always did this when we were up against the Hornets. Oh man, they thought they were the _shit_." January's wobbling slightly. He wonders if he should catch her if she falls. "_Hate_ those goddamn Hornets."

January's doing some kind of jump-skip-running akimbo. He really can't tell anymore. But he smiles nonetheless. Because the taut pulls on his cheek was gone and he can really _smile_ without restrain. And it feels _nice_.

"Oh, hey. That's really good."

"I haven't done it yet."

"Oh."

Jacob Black is trying to conjure up, from the deep dark corners of his mind, the last time he's been at a pep rally. He thinks he's only been at one, with Embry and Quil. He thought it was quite a pointless event. It wasn't like he's a football player. It wasn't like he's a football player's friend. But Embry insisted that this is what normal people did and that the cheerleaders were hot. Jacob supposes he's always harbored some hidden animosity for cheerleaders, since like most of the male population, he's never managed to snag one for himself.

Maybe if he had gone to January's high school, things might've been different. He thinks he could've gotten behind the whole _hate those goddamn Hornets_. It's got a nice ring to it. Plus, what were hornets anyways? Overgrown bees? And even if he couldn't, he can still imagine himself trailing behind Janie like some pathetic puppy, eager for attention. Like he did with _her_.

The rest of the cheer is composed of a lot of loud _rah-rah_s and one-letter chants. And he's too drunk to be able to put the letters together into a word. It doesn't really matter anyways, because all he's capable of paying attention to is that he's at the _perfect_ eye level to witness the way Janie's little miniskirt flared from her thighs.

He gives a lewd, half-delirious smirk.

"Oh, hey. That's really good."

"You said that last time."

"Oh."

Jacob scratches his head. He has an odd sensation that they had already had this conversation before. But he can't quite place where or when. What were they talking about again? Overgrown bees?

"You know, something tells me that you're bitter you never managed to snag yourself a cheerleader." She's gesturing to him with a raised brow and almost empty bottle.

It takes him a minute to react, because it takes him a minute to process all her words. Why does she insist on talking in long sentences like that? "What gives you that idea?" He retorts.

She attempts to narrows her eyes, but then just ends up giggling. "You told me! Don't you remember, you ass?!" She's almost doubled-over. He fails to see what's so funny. "Just a moment ago, you said it yourself!"

Jacob Black does not enjoy being sworn at. He's just about to make a noise of indignation when she interrupts him.

"Do you know how many times I tried to seduce Peter in this uniform?" He groans audibly. He doesn't want to hear about this shit. He tips back his own bottle, feeling the burn of the alcohol sliding down his raw throat. It stung, but it felt _delightful_. "Like there was this one time, where I was completely hammered—"

"Like you are now?" He supplies helpfully.

"Shut up. I'm telling it."

Jacob scrunches his face, he broadcasts, "You're kind of an angry drunk, you know that?"

"_So_," She raises her voice in order to override his. "I was basically like _throwing _myself at him. Like seriously, I was getting ready to strip him right there under the bleachers…"

He'd rather claw out his eyes, claw the skin off his face, than hear this story. "How classy." He comments through gritted teeth. He tries to block out all of her words by staring at the 'Jansen' printed on the back of her uniform.

"But he was all 'stop, Jan, I'm not taking advantage of you like this' and I was all like, 'come on, Peter, let's have hot monkey sex', then he starts blushing and I thought I had him, and then—guess what happened?"

"I thought _you_ were telling it."

She throws a pillow at him. _God_, she was _violent_ intoxicated. "Guess what happened." She presses. "_Guess_."

He tosses his head back, only to bang it against the wall he's leaning against. He hisses then decides to oblige her, in an extremely exasperated manner, "_What_?"

She holds up a finger, and sways unexpectedly, "His date of the night, saunters right up to me, slaps me, calls me a 'whore', and drags Peter off. _Lord_, I was so embarrassed. It was mortifying. Hey, did you know that?"

Her sentences are so disjointed and it was starting to annoy Jacob because he wants his eloquent Janie back. "Know _what_?"

She blinks, her gray eyes are suddenly very soft, like clouds on a rainy day. Wide and helpless. "That I'm easily embarrassed. That I'm too proud for my own good. That I can't stand it when people pity me." She rolls onto her back, staring unmovingly at the ceiling like he had moments ago. "After that incident, I quit cheerleading." She tells him. "It was probably a stupid reason to quit. Well, it was probably stupid to join in the first place but—I don't know. That was just how I dealt with things. Things get too hard, and I'll just remove myself from the equation. It sounds...logical enough, doesn't it?"

He smiles wryly, "Sounds about right." He reassures.

And she relaxes, deflating as if she just had the air drained out of her. She raises the rim of the bottle to her lip again and shakes when nothing comes out. It's finished and she hollers with disappointment. She lets it roll onto its side, away from her. She struggles to twist open another one.

Desperate to break the tension, January commands him, "Say something."

He rubs his eyes. They burned. And he could've sworn he saw _her_, standing behind Janie, frowning in disapproval at him. He can almost hear her voice. _Rolling around drunk with another girl. What are you doing, Jake?_ God, he was hallucinating. He also wishes she would go away. Because he didn't want to see her like this. He didn't want to know that she still cared.

"—Say...say what?" He squeezes his eyes tighter, jamming his fists into them, and pinches the bridge of his nose. He drinks. The alcohol makes his skin burn, and it bruised his liver, and it gave him that tingly buzz Janie often gives him.

She repeats forcefully, "Say something."

He purses his lips, "I don't know what—"

"Say something Bella's Jacob would say."

Jacob Black's heart stopped. Stopped, as in...halted. Literally, in mid-beat. He couldn't breath and he started to grow light-headed. His stomach's clenched. "What?" He gasps in surprise.

January looks at him directly. Her eyes are brooding and enchanting and rain silver. Her jet-black hair is spilled messily onto the floor, a puddle of black, streamed with red from those ribbons in her wavy tress. "What is Bella's Jacob like?"

He sighs, frustrated and wary. But in the end, he complies, chirping in a faux-energetic voice, "Why _sure_, Bells. Of course I can come over. Oh yeah, really it's _no_ trouble at all. Uh-huh. _Whatever_ you want. You want to go cliff diving? _Okay_. As long as we're together, _anything_ is fine."

January Jansen bursts into a round of girlish giggles that no matter how hard she seemed to try, she just can't contain. The way he emphasized the words. And the way his face remained stoic even during the cheerful speech.

"Oh, _Jeez_. I'm sorry, but that's just depressing." She apologizes with another short laugh.

Jacob rolls his dark, sunken gaze. "Yeah well, that's Bella's Jacob for you." He tries to drown himself with tequila. Drown himself like he did that night in Argentina. With the name-less woman and the bar fight he started. He licks his lips, and tips his head towards Janie. She's resting her back on the wall furthest away from him, one knee pulled up to her chest, and her head lolled to the side dreamily. "How about you? What were you like with _Peter_?"

She chuckles under her breath, husky melodic chuckles. She questions, bemused, "Why do you always say his name like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're trying to screw with it. Like you're trying to mispronounce it." She raises a brow in that wonderful way only she can pull off. When Jacob opts to stay silent, she shrugs, "We were basically like every other couple out there. We didn't fight much though." He thought she sounded wistful for a second there, "Because Peter always lets me win, so it's really no fun."

He gives her a vacant stare, hollow but pained, "Say something good ole' Jan would say then."

"Mm..." She hummed thoughtfully, her pretty grin is roguish. Then she adopts a monotone, eyes dull, "Oh hi, daddy. Yes, I am still dating that boy with the floppy hair. No, he hasn't tried anything. No, _I _haven't tried anything. No, I haven't heard anything from April." She turns her head to the other side, like talking to someone else. "Hey, mama, Peter and I bought you these earrings. Glad you like it. No, it wasn't too expensive. Yes, yes—I _do_ realize it's not the same thing as a grandchild. _Of course_ we're trying. We try _everyday_. No progress though. _Sorry_."

She had spat out the last word so insolently that Jacob had to chuckle, because it was January and it wasn't like her to be so...typical. He grins at her, his mouth holding an edge of hysterics. And she grins back, softer.

And he can't help but tell her all about Bella.

* * *

**End Note:**

**Well hey there, readers! This is a long chappie indeed and I'm very proud to say that I'm very proud of it. Does that make sense? Well, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to BlueWhitney and her story 'The Company We Keep' because it kinda inspired me to write this chapter and this STORY in general. **

**But in THIS chapter--and for a moment, I sounded like my old English Lit teacher--we really do learn more about January. Her character really develops and she's slowly becoming more 3D. Because I've been reading over the last few chapters and I realized that we really know NOTHING about Janie except for the fact that she was a bit of a flower child and she loved color and she wore flowers in her hair. So I've decided that we learn more about her and I juggled with a few personalities for quite a while. At first, she was very energetic and full of life. Then, I gave her a more mellow attitude. But then, I decided that both were kind of over-done so I was like, I'll just give Jan a very typical lifestyle. A very NORMAL life. Then show her course of maturity throughout the story, of course. **

**QuestionS of the day: What's your favorite part of the chapter? Favorite line? What do you think about January's high-school life, are you surprised? And lastly, how would you feel about a Peter/January companion fic?**

**As for the last question, I've sort of already wrote out the outline for the first chapter and the story is appropriately titled as 'The Biography of January Jansen' and the first line of the story is as follows:**

**"Jan, he's not a toy."**

**--Lots of love, my lovelies, and reviews are always adored. **


	7. Superman Jake

**The Man With Few Words**

"_When a deep injury is done to us, we never recover until we forgive." –Alan Paton_

* * *

_Chapter Seven_

When Jacob Black was young, he used to whiz around the house, and pretend he's Superman.

He was just a normal kid, he supposes. He had a lot of joy and a lot of energy in him. He used to gather up all the neighborhood kids into a giant clan—Embry and Quil included, and go swimming in the beach. He'd slide down the mud ditch whenever it stormed. He was the boy that went into the 'haunted' house to retrieve the stray baseball.

He used to think he was brave.

And then on Saturday mornings, he would wake up early and watch Superman come to life; he'd sit there on the carpet shag, mouth agape with bewilderment as Clark Kent shed his glasses and sweater vests and became fucking Superman. It was life-altering, he thinks.

Ever since he was young, he's got the idea of being a hero implanted in his head. Being courageous and strong and fearless. Just like his father. His father, who taught him that a hero is someone who tries harder than everyone else. _A hero is within all of us_, he'd tell little Jacob. _But being a hero is hard_, he warns, _because he sees what needs to be done_.

Billy Black was Jacob's hero for a very long time. He's never told anyone this and he's sure nobody knows, but his father used to be a firefighter. He used to save lives. He used to come home and make Jake proud.

But that was a long time ago.

A long time ago, Jacob Black tried to be a hero himself. He tied a red cape around his neck and wore a grubby blue t-shirt with the infamous _S_ insignia. He'd sprint down the block and stop everyone in his path. "Can I help you?" He'd ask them, youthful face serious, voice like a chipmunk high on helium. Of course, they would laugh, and ruffle his dark hair, and tell him, "No. But thank you for the offer, young man." Then carry on with their business as usual.

Mom doesn't like it when he runs out, he knows. She's always been a worrywart, and Jacob would come home to Sarah Black nervously twisting her apron, the telltale aromatic scent wafting from the kitchen. Mom baked when she was anxious. Pies, he remembers.

He always came home before dark, usually with nothing more than a scraped knee. But her eyes would still fill with tear as she tears through the medicine cabinet for some disinfectant and she'd make him feel so guilty that he'd swear fervently he'll never step outside the house again. Then she would smile and call him her special boy and cut him a slice of apple pie.

One week, when Jacob was on his way back home, tiny Andrea Watson sprinted to him, face full of tears, and sobbed for him to go save her cat. He wasn't so sure about it at first. After all, it was 6:30 and it was getting dark. He knows mom wouldn't like it, but mom was with dad at a banquet held by the fire station. And she would be proud of him once she hears of what he's done, he's sure. He was a hero. He saw what needed to be done.

So he follows Andrea to her backyard and he climbs up the big oak tree faithfully. He was confident and at ease; he's done this a thousand times. His small hands held onto the familiar branches as his legs maneuvered on their own accord. But it's drizzling lightly, and the water made everything slippery and wet.

Sherlock, the black-striped-white tabby, hisses at him from a precarious sprig. He extends a friendly hand and smiles shakily, pleading for the stubborn cat to jump into his arms. But when he wouldn't and Jacob was getting frustrated, he lunged forward and lobbed the tabby to his chest. Then he lost his balance, and tumbled gracelessly onto the ground.

His arm cracked open with a sickening thud. And he hollered in pain. Tiny Andrea Watson cried even harder.

He can't imagine why though. He's rescued her damn cat for her.

He remembers how all the noise seemed far away and how his eyelids felt heavy. He rolls around, shifting and trying to levitate the excruciating throb. He pushes his face into the dirt and screams. Then he heard Rachel's panicked gasps as she helped him into a sitting position. He sees Rebecca sniffing into the phone. And he dazedly wonders if he's going to be in trouble.

He doesn't exactly know what happened, but he can imagine it.

Mom frantically pulling dad out of the party and ushering him into the car. Dad assuring her that he was going to be fine because the Watsons' are on their way to the hospital. But she wouldn't have it. Oh no, her Jacob was hurt, and he needed her. And dad relents, clambering into the passenger seat because Sarah had already clicked on the engine herself.

It's dark on the highway. The rain is working up a heavy downpour. And mom was crying and driving way too fast.

Things like this happens, he supposes. And there isn't a thing you can do about it.

But that doesn't comfort Jacob Black. Not one bit. Especially not when he arrived at the hospital, hair tussled and damp, an icepack resting on his elbow, to the sight of his mother drenched in blood, breathing out of an oxygen mask. He tries to yell out her name but his throat feels too tight to speak. So he fights his way to her instead.

The nurses stop him though, blocking him and carries him away. He kicks and sobs and makes heart-wrenching sounds. His arm ached something fierce yet he doesn't seem to notice. Rachel catches a hold on him, pushing his face into her chest, as if she could hide him from all the horrors in the world. He can only watch, wide-eyed and confused as they roll her into the operating room and—just like that...she was gone.

He misses her.

He misses her warm arms and curly hair and her apple pies. He misses having someone worry about him and wait for him to come home. He even missed being called 'Jay-bear'.

Jacob gave up being a hero after that. Billy did too. The accident left him paralyzed from the waist down. Billy didn't talk for the longest time and the house grew silent and solemn with words they've never said. As if there was this huge gap between them that kept growing and growing with all the things they _don't_ say to each other.

They healed, of course. The grieving stopped. Condolences were given. And the mourning was over. But Jacob couldn't stop running it over in his mind over and over and over again. The vague and distant suspicion that they never understood what happened that night; what their role was. Or maybe it was just like the thousands of people that lose their lives to car accidents each year. Mom was even more haunting, simply for being mom.

And so little Jacob Black tossed his cape into the trash along with his t-shirt and his faith. He pulled on his best tuxedo and parted his hair just like how mom used to do it. Then he put on his bravest face and watched as his mother was lowered into the ground.

Jacob Black cried. He cried for his father and his sister and Andrea Watson. He cried for his mother, who loved him so; who will never be here again. And he blamed himself, for he wasn't fast enough; strong enough; or brave enough. He was selfish, proud, and reckless. Jacob Black was no hero. He couldn't even save his mom.

Then, Superman was no more.

* * *

"...and she went and married that _bloodsucker_ anyway! I mean-I mean, you know, if you've already g-got your _fucking_ mind made up," Hiccup, "Wh-why are you _fucking_ asking me?!" Hiccup.

Yes. Jacob Black was quite aware that he was drunk out of his goddamn mind. And yes, he fucking liked it. He liked how it made him feel. Light and numb and immune to any and everything.

He felt delightful. Why didn't he do this more often?

Janie's giggling, clutching her side. She's splayed out on the floor like a lazy cat, the scarlet hem of her tiny skirt pooled atop of the rug. She rested her chin in her hands delicately, smiling dreamily. Her stormy eyes are softer than he's ever seen, half-closed. She questions, she speaks louder when drunk, as if she's afraid he can't hear her.

"Why do you call him that?"

He pushes the bottle to his mouth but misses, dumping tequila up his nose instead. He inhales on instinct and felt the alcohol scorch his lungs. Deeply annoyed, he snaps, "Call him what?"

January lowers her voice by an octave and slurs in an angry baritone, "_Bloodsucker_." She kicks her legs up in the hair, and scrunches her nose, "Like he's Count Dracula or something." Jacob wanted to laugh. Oh, she had no idea. "He can't possibly as bad as you make him out to be. She did fall in love with him, after all."

Jacob grunted in frustration. He hated how she dismissed his flaws so nonchalantly. He hated how articulated she was. And he hated how she brought this topic up. "Well, he's a douche." He tells her matter-of-factly, much like the teenager he was.

January burst into laughter.

Her head looks like it's getting too heavy for her arms to hold up so she slides bonelessly onto the ground, midnight hair streaked with red ribbons fanning around her face. She rolls onto her back, "At least he loves her. That has to count for something, right?"

"Only because she's so eager to fall into his fucking lap." He spats bitterly, "And because she's the only person in the world who'll _want_ to marry a _leech_." He glares hard at the ceiling with blazing sunken eyes.

Janie adopts a sardonic look, "Why do _you_ love her, then?"

Jacob was taken by surprise, so there was nothing he could do but blink for several minutes. Then he frowned in contemplation. And a cold chill ran down his spine and his forehead broke out in sweat when he realized that he _didn't_ know the answer. His throat squeezed as he shook his head in bewilderment. Why did he love her? Well, he means, there doesn't have to be anything, like, specific, right? He-he _knew_ he loved her, and that's enough, right?

Flustered, he says, "You can't just...list things like that."

Janie stares at him with blank charcoal gray eyes, before focusing it on the ceiling once again. She takes a swallow from her bottle and announces, almost challengingly, "I can tell you all the reasons why I love Peter."

"Oh yeah?" He shifts closer to her, because—when did she get so far away? This list sounds promising and entertaining and Jacob was just glad to get the spotlight off of him.

She nods, knocking back other swig. Her irises turned glassy, and her lips twitched into a smile. "Sure." And she squints, as if she's trying to paint his picture with her mind. "He's got this silly piece of hair, right by his eye, you know. He always fidgets with it when he's nervous. And his brows crease...like this," She furrows her own, "whenever he's pensive. And his mouth goes crooked when he smiles because the nerve endings on his bottom lip are dead."

"Those are all physical stuff," Jacob complains petulantly. Psh, he can do that too! Bella has chestnut hair and...and she was short!

January huffs and rolls her eyes, "Fine. You wanna know how about his personality?" He noticed that her dewy voice softened when she talked about him. "He's quiet, but he's always got a lot of thoughts running through his mind. He's bashful and he doesn't like attention. He's a good baseball player and his favorite subject is chemistry. He wanted to be a doctor ever since he was 10 and before that, he wanted to join the Air Force. His doesn't drink and he doesn't like to swear. His first girlfriend is Sophia Silvers in the 7th grade and he goes to church every Sunday." She tosses him a superior look. "That good enough for you?"

The only thought running through Jacob Black's head is: what kind of guy goes to church every Sunday?

And...how the hell was he supposed to know all this stuff about Bella? Sure, he was her best friend. Yeah sure, they spent a lot of time together. And _yeah_ okay, it's pretty basic knowledge but him and Bella weren't about that. They were about the thrill seeking and the excitement. They made plans to go cliff-diving and rode motorbikes.

But come to think of it, they only did that so that she could see her precious _bloodsucker_.

Jacob Black blanched. He knew nothing of the woman he loved—love? Loved?

January seems to catch onto this fact as well because she chuckled delicately, her elfish features all pretty and breakable, her mouth red and pouty. "Do you even know what color eyes she has?"

"Brown." He blurts without hesitation. Of course. He was sure about this. Yes. He distinctively remembers how her eyes matched her hair. Did it? "Green." Right. They were kind of hazel colored. They were most definitely green. Like emeralds. They were mesmerizing and light; silvery like tinsels..."Gray."

"_My_ eyes are gray."

Jacob scowled at his hands, "Oh." He could've sworn—he studied January. January in her Riverside High School cheerleading uniform. January with scarlet ribbons wove into her shimmering black tress. Tumultuous like a silk waterfall. January with eyes like the rain.

January is kicking off her cherry red stockings because it was getting too hot. Her legs, bare and pale, are slender and surprisingly long. It's really a shock why she wasn't taller. She was _very_ leggy. They were smooth and graceful and he promises himself he's going to kiss her there before the night is over. He's going to kiss her everywhere. Since when did elves get such nice legs? He couldn't take his eyes off of her. She truly had _really _nice legs...and feet the size of his hand...and this alluring scar running down her left knee.

He blinks.

He straightens in order to get a better look, peeking over Janie's curled, spidery limbs. She's starting to doze off a little, the pauses in their conversation longer. His brows wrinkle in bewilderment as he widen his shadowy irises and squints, thinking that if he squeezed them shut hard enough, the thin, wiry scar will disappear.

It was a furious looking thing. An angry pink gash that ran from the top of her knee down almost to her ankle. Faded stitches pulling the taut, snowy skin together, raised above the rest of her flawless leg.

Why did he never notice this before?

"Lord, will you look at that?" January smiles a miserable, fragile smile. The same smile he saw in the photo on the cabinet. It was such a sensitive, deep-rooted pain that Jacob couldn't even touch. She traces the ugly mark with a finger, "Four surgeries later and it still looks the same as it did half a year ago."

He now knows why she wears stockings all the time. He now knows why she stumbles with an awkward grace. He now knows why she was sad.

He considers asking her what had happened but he knows that prying doesn't work. It'll happen when it happens, so he settles for a simple, "I'm sorry." His hand reaches out automatically, wanting to feel the jagged line of the fire-red brand but then he curls his fist and retracts back as if he's been burned.

Janie tries to hide her pain behind a grin. She informs him, "I was a dancer."

His brows shot up. But again, it fit; like pieces on a puzzle. The way she moved, with all her colors and confidence. Her lithe, agile frame and eternal legs. "I'm not surprised."

"Professional ballet. That was why I went to New York. To attend Juilliard, then I joined the Company and we danced everywhere." There was light in her eyes. The glassy gray lifted until it was almost electric blue.

Jacob's stomach did tumbles. He couldn't stop himself from asking, "Then what happened?"

"Then a car hit me." January explains calmly, "And my knee shattered." She pursed her lips, pushing her raven hair behind her shoulder, "And I couldn't dance anymore."

* * *

Sometimes people are on a collision course, and they just don't know it. Whether it's by accident or by design, there's not a thing to do about it.

A woman in New York City was on her way to go shopping, but she had forgotten to set her house alarm—went back to set it. When she had finished locking up, the phone had rung, so she'd stopped to answer it; talked for a couple of minutes.

While the woman was on the phone, January Jansen had been rehearsing for a performance at the New York Metropolitan Opera. And while she was rehearsing, the woman, off the phone now, had gone outside to hail a taxi.

Now, a taxi driver had dropped off a passenger earlier and had stopped to get a cup of coffee. And all the while, Janie was rehearsing.

And this cab driver, who dropped off the earlier passenger; who'd stopped to get the cup of coffee, had picked up the lady who was going shopping, who had missed getting an earlier cab because of the phone call with her friend. The taxi had to stop for a man crossing the street, who had left for work five minutes later than he normally did, because he forgot to set his alarm the night before.

While that man, late for work, was crossing the street, January had finished rehearsing, and was taking a shower. And while she was showering, the taxi was waiting outside a boutique for the woman to pick up a gift for the friend she was meeting, which hadn't been wrapped yet, because the girl who was supposed to wrap it had broke up with her boyfriend the night before, and forgot.

When the package was wrapped, the woman, who was back in the cab, was blocked by a delivery truck. All the while Janie was getting dressed.

The delivery truck pulled away and the taxi was able to move, while Janie, the last to be dressed, chatted on the phone with _Peter_ about where to head for dinner that night. Then she had to wait for one of her friends, who had broken a shoelace.

While the taxi was stopped, waiting for a traffic light, January and her friend came out the back of the Opera house.

And if only one thing had happened differently: if that shoelace hadn't broken; or that delivery truck had moved moments earlier; or that package had been wrapped and ready, because the girl hadn't broken up with her boyfriend; or that man had set his alarm and got up five minutes earlier; or that taxi driver hadn't stopped for a cup of coffee; or that woman had remembered to turn on the house alarm, and got into an earlier cab, Janie and her friend would've crossed the street, and the taxi would've driven by.

But life being what it is—a series of intersecting lives and incidents, out of anyone's control.

That taxi did not go by. And that driver was momentarily distracted. And that taxi hit January Jansen, and her leg was crushed.

* * *

**End Note:**

**I'm really overwhelmed by the response I'm getting from you guys. Really, you guys are amazing. All of ya'll that took the time to write me the most beautiful and long reviews and you guys, I LOVE long reviews because it just gives me so much to work with but you guys know who you are and you are amazing. **

**I wanna give a shout-out to two of my highlight reviews from the last chapter which is from 'Morning-Sunset' as always and a new reader 'Runawayscribbler'. You guys rock and I give you both virtual hugs.**

**In this chapter, it's all about revelation and the peeling back of January's past. She's really such a mystery because she really do know nothing about her. And I'm having a lot of fun developing her character. I wrote the last part in a sort of omni-3rd person point of view and kind of a la Benjamin Button style for those of you who have seen the movie and I hope that you guys enjoy the effect of it. **

**Questions of the day: Are you surprised by January's past? About Jacob's? And since I have JUST posted the first chapter of the Peter/Jan fic, will you go and read and review?!**

**Love you all,**

**Kitty.**


	8. James Jason Jasper

**The Man With Few Words**

"_When I kiss you, I can taste your soul." –Carrie Latet_

* * *

_Chapter Eight_

When Jacob Black woke up, he woke up to a splitting headache and a mouth filled with cotton. How delightful.

He had been laying spread-eagle on the living room floor, basically taking up the entirety of the space, but his neck ached because he didn't have a pillow. His arm cramped from being tucked under his head and his eyes are dry and they hurt whenever he blinked. His throat was on fire.

All in all, Jacob Black felt like hell.

But January Jansen—pretty, pretty January Jansen, is standing behind the kitchen counter looking like she _hadn't_ gotten completely drunk out of her mind last night, but instead calm and placid. Which, kind of surprised the shit out of Jacob, to say the least.

She's changed into fresh clothes, for one. A thin pink sweater that showed off way too much of her midriff to be considered appropriate and a denim miniskirt. Her scarred leg is neatly covered with a black stocking pulled up to her thigh, while her other leg, bare and endless, gracefully helped her maneuver her way around. She looked as slender as a blade of grass. Her pitch-black hair, laced with pink ribbons, is pulled high into a hasty bun.

She's smoking a cigarette and drinking herbal tea and reading a _Cosmopolitan_ magazine.

He groans, feeling extremely brutish in her delicate presence. She doesn't take her charcoal eyes off the page she's reading but her lips curve into a warm smile. He grimaces in return and clutches his throbbing head in his hands. The room spun as he stood and it took him a while to regain his balance. It felt like somebody had cut him open and rearranged all of his organs. He felt _off_.

And so, January Jansen's first words to him posed the appropriate question, "Do you need to go throw up?"

And he does. He charges into the bathroom, clawing at the walls in the hallways as he stumbles his way, flips up the toilet lid and empties out his rolling stomach. His hair dangled in front of his face but he makes no move to move it. His chest was on fire and his throat raw.

But it all felt damn good.

He empties out the sorrow. The depression. The self-inflicting lies and inevitable truth. He lets it all come out like a bad taco. He felt as it he was being burned alive. Like somebody poisoned him with acid and misery and heartbreak. He used to like it; the pain. He used to think that it was the only thing he had—a reminder of what he had endured. He wore his hopelessness proudly like a military badge.

Jacob Black might not realize it now, but this was in fact the most catastrophic event of his life. Because he had realized that it was gone. _What_, you may ask, _what is gone?_ Jacob can only tell you..._everything_. Everything was gone. His relationship with Bella. His fight for her love. Their time together as best pals. It was done and finished and all so, so refreshing. He didn't have to run or argue anymore because: what is the point? It's all over now. She had chosen _him_ and that was that. His badge doesn't seem like a sign of honor anymore, merely a symbol of what he used to be.

While he was having his little mental breakdown, January Jansen trudges silently into the bathroom and drops a towel next to the sink. She twists on the water in the bathtub and suggests, "Wash your hair. Take a shower. You'll feel better." Then she walks out again, her lingering scent of gardenias and cigarette smoke remaining in the air.

So, Jacob Black steps into the shower as commanded. He's a little too numb to be rebelling at any rate. He was numb because...because everything suddenly seems so fucking _vivid_. Like he'd been dreaming...or wearing sunglasses this whole time and he's only just woke up.

Everything looks all _real_ and shit.

He lets the warm water run their course. Lets it soak his hair and wash away the dirt. He bends his neck because he's somehow afraid that if he straightened, he's gonna bang his head on the faucet. Not that it was going to hurt him or anything but he didn't want to break Janie's faucet.

His headache is clearing up and the pang in his side has disappeared. He blinks away the last effects of his hangover as he squirted some '_Spring Apricot_' shampoo into his hand and sniffed cautiously. It smelled wonderful. And he's struck with the sudden thought if Janie's hair would smell like this. He wonders if he'll ever get close enough to find out.

And so Jacob Black takes a shower. He brushes his teeth with a toothbrush Janie set out for him. He washes his hair. But not just because January told him to but mostly because he felt like it. And he slips on his dirty old jeans and finds another plaid shirt tucked inside the towel. He crinkles his nose and contemplates for a moment going shirtless but then he tosses the red plaid shirt that made him look like a hillbilly over his head, pulled on the pants that were streaked with mud and marches out.

January is watching baseball. She sits on the floor and yanks a stocking up her bare leg, then she props her arms out behind her and wiggles her toes, looking very contented to be there. She raises a brow when she sees him and beams, her brilliant smile almost taking him off-guard, "Well well," She drawls in her southern twang, "Don't you look sharp?" Her wicked dimple quirks girlishly.

Jacob grunts in response. He plows his hand through his wet hair. He doesn't say anything to her. Not even a 'good morning'. But he doesn't need to. Because Janie understands him even when he can't find the words to say what he feels. He wanders into the kitchen and pulls open the fridge door. He twists open a bottle of water and down the whole thing, trying to revive some of his tastebuds. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw the little ballerina get up and start cursing again, trying to relocate her wallet.

Because he can't stop his curiosity, and because he was in a talkative mood today, he scrunches his brows tight together and asks, "Where are you going?"

"To eat." January was looking at him with such an obvious surprise that it annoyed him. It made him feel stupid and inadequate. "Aren't you hungry?" He doesn't get the chance to answer. "Well, _I'm _hungry. What do you want? Pancakes? Hamburgers? Both?" She was slinging questions at him so fast, he can't even blink anymore. She sits her cute little butt down in the foyer and starts tugging on her rain-boots. "There's this sweet diner down the block. You wanna roll out?"

"No!" Jacob exclaims with more emotion than he meant to convey. _The Hot Mug_ was a frequent hangout place for the Pack and the last thing he wants is for them to find him walking in there with January after going missing for a night. They'll interrogate him, surely. Maybe even Janie. But maybe not, after all, she was an elf. What harm would anyone want to do to an elf? "No, no, no." He denies. She's staring at him with a quizzical look. He explains, fidgeting uncomfortably, "I don't like that place."

January trails a hand into her long hair, "Oh. Okay then." She bites her bottom lip and shifts her silvery eyes all around. "I don't know where else to go." She tells him.

He doesn't really either. But he thinks it would be weird if he admitted that to her. She would probably think that he was strange, a kid that's been living in the same town for 19 years and still have no idea where the food was good. He considered for a moment taking her to the local fast food joint but he didn't want to risk anyone spotting them together. La Push was a small town, after all. And after a long while, he relented and grumbled, "We can go to the food court. There's a mall in Port Angeles. About an hour's drive."

"The mall?" She repeats dubiously. She seems put off that it's so far away.

She said it as if she couldn't believe he was suggesting this. "Yes. That is where normal people go, right?" She smiles and nods and he tempts her with one last trick, "They have a Ben & Jerry's there." Because January loved ice cream.

And that makes her agree wholeheartedly.

She waits patiently as he slipped into his worn sneakers—and he praises himself for actually wearing shoes last night. Her purple patterned rain-boots squeaking as she rocked forward-then-back. And when she reaches over him to retrieve her car keys from a plastic tray, her bare torso was suddenly thrust in his face and Jacob thought his eyes were going to fall out. He jerks his head back, stunned, and nearly fell over backwards. His heart was beating way too hard and there's a blistering heat crawling up his neck.

January Jansen doesn't notice.

As they stroll outside into the crisp morning air, Jacob knew that there was going to be a storm coming. He could smell it. The sun is peeking out amidst the clouds and it's warm all around him, but he can pick up that hint of humidity, the dampness. The calm before the storm. He wonders if he'll have time to phase tonight. He loved the feeling of the rain against his fur.

Janie seems to pay no attention, however, as she unlocked her car and quietly slipped in. Once the engine's started, she bounces in her seat and backs out of the driveway. She drives with both feet, which Jacob found odd and endearing. She rolls down the windows.

Then out of nowhere, she inquires, "Is this a date?" It was voiced loudly by her dewy soprano so he had no doubts that she had meant to ask this question.

But it doesn't stop him from being surprised and he's glad he wasn't the one driving because he most certainly would have veered off the road. It takes him a minute or so to gather his bearings. Then another minute to think over a response. Then he decided that it was a hard question and so he was just going to ignore her, hoping that she'll come to find this moment awkward and tell him to forget about it.

She doesn't.

And the silence hangs between them like a heavy blanket of snow. And he feels guilty and rude for not answering the question she asked him so he answers in what he thought was a satisfactory response, "If you want it to be."

Jacob's heart was doing strange things inside of him, racing and stopping and stuttering like his Volkswagen Rabbit's old engine. He can hear his loud breathing and the pulse of his blood thumping unevenly in his ear and his chest was tightening and searing.

January Jansen says, "Okay."

What does that mean exactly? Jacob doesn't know. He stares out the window as Janie punches on the radio and tuned into her dirty rap station. He slumps down in his seat and shoves his hands into his pockets. His brows shot up when his fingers found the cool metal of the ring he pulled out of the garbage disposal some odd weeks ago. He wrinkles his nose in disgust. Just how long has he been wearing these jeans? They were laying on the floor and he just snatched it up, he thinks? He hopes.

He pulls it out and hands it to January wordlessly. It took several glances of her stormy eyes to find what he was holding up for her. She lets him drop it into her palm and slides it habitually into its place on her middle finger.

"Hey," She says suddenly. It came out of nowhere so Jacob jumped slightly. "Can I ask you something?"

He assumed that the question was rhetorical and that she was going to ask him anyways so he waits. And when she doesn't say anything, he gets annoyed. He sighs, exasperated, "_What_, Janie?"

He thought that it was going to be something really important because she kind of hesitated and January almost never hesitates. She was the shoot first, decide later type of person. But she had pursed her lips together and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. She opens her mouth several times, and then closed it, as if she's not entirely sure if he was going to take offense of what she says. And then finally, "Can you put on your seatbelt?"

The man with few words is surprised. But he does what he's told. Not just because she asked him to, but mostly because he felt like it.

* * *

Jacob Black curses.

_He couldn't even leave her alone for a damn minute. Sons of bitches. Stinking up the whole place. Fucking leeches. He can't fucking stand them. _

When they arrive at the Port Angeles mall, it took them almost a half hour to locate a parking spot and then it took January about ten minutes to get her little coupe into the goddamn parking spot. And as soon as Jacob stepped out of the car—as soon as he caught a whiff of that sickening sweet smell in the air, almost gagging him, he knew that there were vampires here.

Call it instinct. Call it being a werewolf. Call it being Jacob-fucking-Black.

But he just _knew_. It was strong and near and chances are, there's probably more than one of them because the stupid Cullens never leave the house just by themselves. They've got to have their little leech lover with them. His arm is starting to tremble and he really doesn't think that phasing on Janie during their first 'date'—or not date—is kind of a bad first impression.

So he tersely strides into the mall, back straight as an arrow, while January trailed after him with her inky tress loose and torso exposed. _Goddamn it, he wishes she would put on something more decent._ Then he turns and informs her stiffly that he had to go use the restroom and would she please wait for him in _Pottery Barn_?

She shrugs nonchalantly and glides into the furniture store, warning him that she was hungry and not to be long. _Of course not_, he assures her. As soon as she was fully absorbed by what the saleswoman was pitching about an Egyptian cotton bed-drape, he shot out of sight and roamed maniacally through the stores.

He went into the Candle shop. He went into the department store. Then he checked the jewelry place and the hair salon. He tried to think posh. Where would posh, elegant _bloodsuckers_ go? He marches into _Victoria's Secret_. His search is not successful. He does not find vampires shopping for lavender scented candles or diamond rings or even lacey lingerie.

He returns to _Pottery Barn_ with a confused furrow in his brow and a tug in his chest. Discomforted, he tries to tell himself that they probably left. Probably smelled him as he smelled them and took off. After all, he and the Cullens didn't exactly end things on friendly terms.

He saw January first. He spots her shimmering dark hair and pink ribbons and enchanting grin. And his heart hammered. His lips curved into a feeble, involuntary smile. She made him feel light-headed, like somebody pumped his body full of helium. Like he can just float off the ground.

But then something popped Jacob Black's balloon with a knife and made him go pale.

He almost lunged. _Bloodsucker_. That thin, blonde one who always seems so calm. Jacob didn't like him. Because he always seem to appear so undisturbed that it made Jacob feel like a fool for being so brash and impulsive. And even though Jacob was _positive_ he loathed the guy, he can't actually bring himself to hate him when he's facing him. And that angered Jacob.

Jacob can't quite recall his name. It's somewhere in the dusty corner of his mind, hovering like a ghost. He's given up that past now. He's given it up since this morning. He doesn't want to go back, but it seems like God has a funny sense of humor.

James? Jason? _Jasper_.

He was leaning casually against a table, smiling handsomely, looking all dashing and charming in his crisp shirt and khakis. January was responding, a curious but perplexed, expression playing on her delicate features. She's beaming, but it seems more bemused than taken. As if she found the bloodsucker entertaining.

Fucking _Jasper_ has got his hands all tangled in her long raven waves, staring at her with those freaky golden eyes of his with a dreamy longing. Like she was a piece of cottage cheese. And Jacob is shaking from head to toe, his body ready to shrug his skin off for a shag of fur. He forces himself to stay collected but the leech is already making a move, getting ready to put his slimy, icy hands on _his_ elf's waist.

"Janie!" He barks, almost stomping as he made his way over. The entire store probably heard him but he doesn't care. All he cares about is getting her out of here as quickly as possible. And maybe ripping _Jasper's_ arm off if he has the time.

Janie looks over at him, her tinsel-light gaze endearing and piercing. "Oh hey, you're back." She complains, "I'm starving. Took you long enough." Jacob's sunken, blazing eyes never left the blonde she just met, who was almost pressed against her a second ago, retreated back to a respectable distance. "This is Jasper. He helped me get something from the top shelf."

"We've met," Jasper responds impassively, "Jacob." He greets, almost sounding amiable. "I have to say that I'm surprised to see you here." His marble face stretches into a dazzling smile, and Jacob was surprised it didn't crack with the effort. "How have you been?"

Jacob grits his teeth together, his jaw itching to take a snap. "Fine." He spats, "Just fine." He didn't trust himself to say anything more. He was afraid he might phase.

"I didn't know you had gotten yourself such a wonderful little girlfriend." Jasper sounded puzzled and sarcastic. But Jacob can never tell for sure because he's got that whole manipulative air about him that he just didn't trust.

"She's not my girlfriend." He forces and for a second, Jacob wished that he was lying. Their thick, floral fragrance is stinging his nose and sending every nerve in his body into hyperactive gear. He was sure that every hair on his body is standing up straight.

Jasper pretends not to have heard him, sticking his hands into his pockets and shrugging, "I better go. Alice is waiting for me." He smiles extra-bright for January and murmurs a silky goodbye, then brushes past Jacob, making his russet skin scald from the contact. "I'll be sure to tell Bella that you said hi."

"Whatever,"Jacob grumbles. He doesn't care anymore.

* * *

January Jansen is eating ice cream out of a cup with a plastic pink spoon. She swings her legs and she's got both her arms propped on the table. They're sitting in a small table in the center of the food court. It was noisy here and it distracted Jacob from his thoughts—which, he was thankful for. She's studying him intently with watchful dove-gray eyes, as if she were afraid he might explode at any second.

She swallows a bite of the frozen treat, "Are you okay?" She blinks, "You seem distraught ever since you got here."

His lips twitched upwards. He's never heard anyone used the word 'distraught' so informally before. January was like a walking thesaurus, always phrasing her sentences with perfect structure and filling the spaces between them with big words. She was a grammar Nazi in a way. She almost had his head last week when he said 'me and my dad'. She hotly corrected him 'my dad and _I_, Juh-co-bee, it's my dad and _I_'.

He stabs the pink slush in his bowl. Janie made him order strawberry so that they can share. "I'm fine." She arches a brow, waiting. He exhales sharply, "I-I just don't like that guy, okay?"

"Who? Jasper?"

He growls and hurtles the name out vehemently, the sound of it feels like acid in his mouth, "_Cullen_." Janie's other brow shoots up as well. "That _bloodsucker's_ brother." He grumbles a few more curses under his breath. "—Goddamn leeches."

"Do you want to talk about it?" January gazes at him blankly, her pretty, pretty face making his neck hot.

He turns away from her, "No."

January Jansen doesn't take offense from that. She doesn't pry and she doesn't ask again. She shrugs and drives another scoop of ice cream into her mouth. And she starts talking, something she did whenever she noticed that Jacob wasn't in an engaging mood. He was grateful for her. For having her in his life. For her clean chime and simple stories.

"Did I ever tell you about the Carolina State Fair?" She doesn't need him to answer or nod or even acknowledge her presence. She just talks; well aware and confident that he _is_ listening. And she's right."Oh man. It's the greatest thing you'll ever experience. Jude and I go every year. We eat popcorn and funnel cake and ice cream and ride the _Tilt-A-Whirl _until we throw up. It's _marvelous_."

Jacob indulges in a ghostly smile, because January Jansen was so magical.

So he eats strawberry ice cream and wears plaid shirts and imagines himself to be a kid growing up in North Carolina...in Riverside High School. Where there are no werewolves and vampires. Where perhaps he would've been different and fell in love with someone else. Where his biggest problem would be _Peter Petrelli_ and cheerleaders.

He lifts his eyes up for a moment, only to connect with that of the psychic. He remembers her, for she was small with dark hair just like Janie. They were even about the same size. Incredibly short and thin. But she was a leech, and her hair isn't long and girlish like Janie's. _Alice_, he remembers. She's standing by the map of the mall with the blonde behind her and she's staring at him directly. He feels like she was trying to set him on fire with her glare.

Inwardly, he was uncomfortable with the ferocity, but he glares right back, unabashed and just as determined. _What, he wasn't allowed to have a life? _Alice gives up on trying to stare him down and shifts her focus to January, who's prattling on about some teddy bear at the State Fair. Then the psychic's eyes were back on him. She raises a careful brow and gives Jacob this _half_-smirk.

Jacob Black thinks that she did something to cross the wires in his brain because he wasn't sure what prompted him to do what he did. He had felt his face grow hot and red and his hands start to shake and his heart beat _really_ fast. Then his shouldres started to shake, his stomach twisted. And January Jansen is still going on-and-on-and-on about her stupid velveteen bear and he just wanted her to shut up and he just wanted the angry burn in his chest to stop so he grabbed her by the chin and kissed her hard.

It was an exhilarating feel. Like electricity flying through his veins, crawling under his skin, and a burst of fiery heat that flooded him from head-to-toe. He got goosebumps on his ears. He thought that he was going to burst open if he didn't kiss her. Thought that his chest was going to rupture and he would go down in flames. His heart thundered, his blood rushed, a jolting thrill sprinting up his spine.

She tasted like ice cream. Like Rocky Road. And...lemonade. And everything about Janie was so warm. Her skin was warm and her lips were warm. And she made him feel warm. Not scorching and blistering and filled with molten lava like usual, but just plain...warm. He can feel her lashes beating against his cheek, as if she can't quite decided rather to close her eyes or not. She smelled like the ocean, free and fresh and comforting.

Something vague in the back of Jacob's mind tells him that this was the first time they ever touched.

It was over almost as quickly as it begun. He let go of January's jaw and let his mouth detach from hers. Hers are pouty and red and she's peering up at him through hooded irises. He licks his lips, unsure of what to do next. He wonders if he should apologize because this is quite an awkward situation.

He's only ever kissed one person in his life. Well—all right, two if he ever did manage to kiss the woman from Argentina. But it didn't make him an expert and he was never good at being romantic or had good timing. He didn't know what this meant. He didn't know what he was feeling. _God,_ he just wanted her to shut up. He just wanted her to accept him and...understand him. He just wants her to stay.

He knows that Alice Cullen was waiting as well. He can sense her sharp stare boring into his back, at the back of his skull.

January blinks. Then, "...so I told Jude that he had to get that bear for me or else I was going to throw a fit, because I really wanted that damn bear...it reminded me of..."

* * *

They're in the park next to the Port Angeles mall.

Jacob Black is caught in a whirlwind of emotions. He's confused; bewildered; lovesick. He shoves his hand through his hair for the umpteenth time, the clean shiny locks gliding through his fingers. He was growing hot and sweaty and he pulled at the heinous plaid shirt he's sporting. He paced angrily on the pavement, his heart a sputtering, frantic mess.

January Jansen is standing on top of a park bench. She's doing some weird stretches, bending down and touching her toes and readjusting her stockings. She looked tranquil except for her wild dark hair, which is fluttering in the wind along with her ribbons. Then she straightens and tugs on the ends of her dancing tress.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He stops in mid-pace, scuffing his shoes against the concrete. He sighs irritably, picking up his dark, hungry gaze from the ground to meet her metallic pale ones. Her skin is snowy, flushed with pink from the cold and her mesmerizing hair is flying. Her standing on the park bench made their height difference equal so he crosses over to her in two strides and, after hesitating for a second, placed his big hands on the sides of her head. Carefully, he slants his mouth over hers and kisses her again. Not because she told him to, but just because he felt like it.

He hopes it'll make her stay. He hopes this kiss will linger. He hopes that she'll love him.

The second time they touch. And Jacob Black grins against her lips, "No."

* * *

**End Note:**

**WHOOO! So, pretty Janie and angry Jacob are finally taking their first steps. Exciting, no? Did you see that coming? Well, I always saw it coming. And I always knew it was going to happen this way, ever since I started writing chapter one. It just felt right, in my opinion. Something spontaneous and really really normal. This is a long chappie indeed and I just want to give SHOUTOUTS to everyone who reviewed. You guys are amazing and in the next chapter or so, I will list ALL of ya'll. You hear?! You rock my life, peoples.**

**Question of the day: This time, my fellow readers, I actually present you with a daunting task. Because Morning-Sunset had asked me what model or actress I had in mind for January, I started thinking that...hey, why don't I let the readers decide? So send me a picture of who you think is the perfect Janie and the winner gets an epic shoutout composed by moi, in the next chapter. **

**And just to be fair...mine will be on my profile page so go on, bounce over there and check it out, kay?**

**Can you honestly look at those two pictures and NOT think, JANUARY?! Miss Natalie Portman has always been my little model since this project, because she's so classy and dainty looking. She's just adorable. **

**And just for pimping purposes, chapter 2 of my JANUARY/PETER story is out! So if you love this story and you love me, go on over there and check it outttttt! **

**--Loves ya'll!**


	9. Ms Scarlet Kaysen

**The Man With Few Words**

"_There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm." –Willa Sibert Cather_

* * *

_Chapter Nine_

It would be a mistake to think that Jacob Black is capable of romance. Because he isn't.

When he was sixteen, on the verge of seventeen, and had just had his heart broken for him and shoved back into his chest, Quil suggested that the Pack should take a road trip. Jacob isn't really sure how that was supposed to help, but Quil was so frickin' adamant and insistent on it that all they could do is snatch some clothes and indulge him in his sudden enthusiasm.

And so Jacob, along with his Pack, all piled and jammed themselves into Emily's van and took off into the wilderness. Quil wouldn't let any of the girls come because it was the time for 'manly healing' and girls weren't allowed—not even Leah, and since Leah's irritated that she's been excluded, she made Seth stay home with her as well.

They went everywhere. Dayton, Washington. Fort Benton, Montana. Silverton, Oregon.

The majority of the trip consisted of everyone just being themselves. Jacob brooded; Quil jabbered senselessly; Embry ran wild. Jared needed to call home every two minutes because 'Kim might've tripped over a rug or choked on her strawberry milkshake since his last phone call two minutes ago'; Paul phased once while inside the car; Sam tried to keep everyone in control but the stress was making him shed, so he stopped.

Jacob brooded some more.

They were in Medora, North Dakota when the bonding started. They've been on the road for about a month now and everybody's exhausted and angry all the time. The phasing happened a lot more frequently than usual. Paul had already exploded out of his skin once in a bar somewhere back in Idaho. He made a girl faint, but Jared assured that she's probably too drunk to remember in the morning, and so they just left her there.

Jacob had felt kind of bad. He means, here's this normal girl, who didn't know anything and is so innocent and trusting, and here _they_ are, lying and misleading her like that. She could've loved Paul. What did she ever do wrong? Was it wrong of her to be in love with him? She couldn't help herself and it just wasn't fair for them to just leave her in the dust like that and—and, who was he talking about again?

It was a lovely little accommodation. One that the six of them had to all wedge into a single room because there weren't any space left and there isn't a motel for another 50 miles. Jacob vividly remembers how goddamn _crowded_ it had been. They are already huge as it is. Inside that little room, Sam can't even stand up straight without knocking into the ceiling. And when Quil settled into one of the wicker chairs, he couldn't get out, and since everybody was so mad at Quil for dragging them into this stupid trip, they just left him in the chair anyways.

The motel has only single rooms. It's the sort of establishment that rents by the hour and caters to philanderers who want to squeeze in a quick screw before going home to their spouses. As if in testament to that, about ten minutes after Jacob and the Pack turned off the lights, a couple staggers in next door and starts going at it raucously, the headboard banging up against the wall. Jacob's half-afraid they're going to pound their way right through, but he tries desperately to pretend he can't hear them. They have to stop soon enough—he's sure of it—but on and on they go, the only change a steady rise in vocals.

Jacob had to wonder rather the receptionist lied to them about the vacancy situation or if his neighbors had booked their room in advance.

He had just decided that the situation could not _possibly _be anymore awkward, when Sam muses from the darkness:

"You know, I was just thinking about Emily."

The entire room groaned. Jared, who's laying perpendicular to him, slapped his arm over and accidentally whacked him in the face. Jacob cursed, which made Sam go quiet, because he thinks that Sam thought that he was being insensitive, bringing up Emily like that when Jacob had a broken heart. Jacob let him think that, because once Sam starts going on about Emily, he just about turns into some character from _The Notebook_.

Sam had the only bed in the room. Jacob's not sure how that is. Maybe it was because he was the alpha. Maybe Sam was the first to claim it and the rest of them just didn't care. However it worked, Sam ends up with the bed. Quil's sprawled sideways in his little chair. Paul dominated the cramped, floral couch. Embry, Jared, and Jacob are all flopped haphazardly on the floor.

"It's funny. I was just thinking about Kim." Came Jared' proclamation. The room groaned again.

At which point, Jacob rolls over and crushes his nose into the pillow. It smelled funky and it was probably unbelievably grimy but he didn't care. Death by suffocation has never seemed so attractive.

Quil asks from his corner in a measly voice, "Is everybody awake?" Different baritones all stretched out in a long, never-ending complain. Quil blinks into the darkness, calling out blindly, "Jacob?"

"Yes," He answers reluctantly. _That's not exactly a lullaby they're playing over in the other room._

Nobody spoke for a long time after that. It's kind of ironic seeing how Quil's question was to get a conversation started. But nobody knew how to continue after that. They didn't know how to 'bond'. They most certainly didn't want to either.

So they listened to the whir and hum of the air conditioner that blew out warm air instead of cold and the moans and smashes from the couple next door. In one instance, they clashed so violently with the wall, that dusts from the ceiling fell and sprinkled onto Jacob's face. The bedside table shook as Paul convulsed on the couch besides it, snarls tearing out of his chest and ripples flying under his skin.

Embry spoke. "I dated this girl, you know." The room remained quiet this time, because this was something different. It was different because it's a well-known fact that Embry doesn't date. He flirted and smiled, but he doesn't date. "Well, not really a _girl_, I guess. Do you guys remember Scarlet?" All around the room are blank stares.

Quil says, "Scarlet _who_?"

Even in the pitch-black stillness, he can still detect Embry's discomfort. Like a twinge that pulled at his own chest. "Scarlet." He repeats, then sighs, frustrated, "Ms. Kaysen?"

Silence.

Then it all erupted like a volcano. The raspy husks all overlapping each other as they shouted and demanded and protested. Quil jabbered senselessly. Jared is yelling about why he hadn't told them this before. Paul almost phased in shock. Sam tried to keep everybody in control but when he stood up, he banged his head on the roof.

Jacob brooded.

"Ms. Kaysen?" Paul bellowed. "The art teacher?!"

The question—phrased more like a statement, hangs suspended in the air between all of them. What ensues can't really be called silence, not with the dynamic duo next door at least. It's more of a pressure, an increased density to the air.

And he had thought that Embry was just going to let it go and head on to sleep, because it's what _he_ would've done, but then he hears Embry swallow. "Uh-huh." There's a touch of fondness in his voice Jacob's never heard before. The way he imagine he sounds whenever he used to talk about Bella. "She teaches in the community center. I was there for English tutorials when I ran into her." He hears Embry shrugs, "I don't know. It was the summer, and she had her hair down, and I thought she looked really pretty. So I asked her out for a cup of coffee."

Jacob liked the way it sounded. Jacob liked how it was uncomplicated and direct. Embry didn't spit out some sappy pick-up line. It was straightforward and Jacob can just tell, from his sentence, why he took an interest in her. Jacob liked how there was no vampire boyfriend and no werewolf best friend in the equation.

"Then what happened?" The inquiry came so naturally that it took him a few moments to figure out that he had been the one to murmur it. If the Pack was surprised by his sudden good humor, he didn't notice.

Even though he couldn't have been more than 5 feet away, Embry sounded very far-away. Lost inside his mind. Lost inside the memories of his summer fling. "Then we started seeing each other. It was really nice and I really liked her. She wasn't anything special. As plain as paper...but she was as pretty as any picture to me."

From the couch, Paul props himself up onto his elbows. "What did she say? Before she took off?" There's an uneasy lull, "And I'm assuming that she did."

Jared told Paul that he was being a prick. Quil is shushing everybody because he wants to hear the story. Sam is telling people to stop cursing or else he's going to put an end to it himself. Jacob just laid there and brooded; because he knew what it felt like. To give everything you have to someone but just not be enough.

"She said I made her feel old."

It was a blank statement. Flowing out of Embry's mouth so smoothly that it sounded like he's practiced it in front of the mirror. It sounded like he's repeated it to himself countless times. Turning the sentence over, flipping it backwards, hopelessly trying to make some sense of it all.

The Pack is silent. The Pack didn't know what to say. The Pack was never good at this sort of comforting thing, although Jacob thinks that Quil _should_ be saying something encouraging because he's the one that started this whole 'manly healing' crap. But everybody's all too absorbed in their own thoughts, even if someone were to console Embry right now, he doubts that Embry would actually paying attention.

"_OH! __GOD__!_" Screams the woman next door.

"Oh, _god_," Jacob echoes through clenched teeth, his hand over his face.

He thinks that Quil let slip a short, involuntary giggle at that moment, but he isn't sure. Maybe it's the woman again. In any case...the moment was over. There's nothing any of them can say now. Not that it would matter, anyway.

Thankfully, the couple next door has, in fact, expended all their energy. Jacob can hear them driving away in two separate cars, and don't seem to have much to say to each other after finalizing their physical exchange. Soon, another group arrives, but they're much quieter. The stink of sharp vodka and drowsy beer find its way through the thin walls. It's entirely tolerable, compared to the earlier performance.

_All these people_, thinks Jacob Black, _they come and they go_.

That was the night Jacob Black ran away.

* * *

It's storming, just like Jacob predicted it would.

They arrived back at January Jansen's house just as the rain started to pour. She had offered to drive him back home but with the lightening and the brooding darkness, Jacob wouldn't ask her of it. Plus, Janie's clumsy grace has descended into an awkward glide as the rain caused her wound to act up in strange ways.

So, January invited him to stay for the night.

"You can have the bed." There was only one bedroom in the house. January stands in the center of the living room with her hands on her narrow hips. Her long, raven tress is shimmering and furling around her waist like a silk curtain, the pearl pink ribbons falling messily onto her round shoulders as she furrowed her brows in thought. "I'll take the couch. I'll fit better."

That was true. If Jacob were to sleep on the couch, most of his legs would stick out, and his back would probably hurt. It was nice of her to offer.

They hadn't talked much. Not since the kiss in the park. Jacob didn't know how to approach the subject and since Janie didn't bring it up, he just didn't bother. Sure, he wanted to talk about it, but he wouldn't know what to say. She would probably ask him what he wants and where they're going with this, but he doesn't know what he wants and he mostly certainly isn't sure what he's feeling.

All he knows is that his chest burns whenever he's near her. And his face goes hot. And everything else in the world seems to fade. Being with Janie was like having the sun on your skin. Not necessarily a sensation, but rather an experience.

She hops around and sets up pillows and blankets, piling them high before wiggling into the sofa. She's holding a mug of tea with both hands and all cattishly curled up. Jacob settles by the arm of the couch and stares into the cackling fireplace. He tugs at the collar of the annoying plaid shirt. It was hideous and he longed to take it off.

"You know, I was just thinking about Peter."

Jacob was so surprised that he almost lost his balance, his hand slipping out from under him. He blinks rapidly, propping himself back onto his arms. He wonders why this conversation sounds so familiar.

"What about him?" He questions. Deep down, he's hoping that she'll say she realized what a huge idiot she's been, dating that moron, and that she's fallen deeply and madly in love with him instead. But then again, a part of Jacob wishes she _wouldn't_ say that because he wouldn't know how to react after that confession.

Jacob feels light-headed. He wonders if it was due to the bloodsuckers. They must've done something to his brain. He's not making any sense.

"It's funny," She continues. She leans back into her seat, her silvery eyes dim and charcoal gray. She seems sleepy, but she looked so silly with her childish bangs hanging in front of her face, that Jacob's hand tingled until he brought it up and brushed it away. His heart gave a little jolt at the gesture; it felt nice knowing that he can do that without feeling hesitant anymore.

Jacob asks, "What's funny?"

"Hmm?" She hums, sounding confused and lost. Then, "Oh. The habits we form without even knowing it. You know how you go to bed with someone for six years, night after night, and then suddenly they're gone, and the bed just feels so..._empty_?" Her dove gray irises are distant. She seems more delicate and smaller than usual. Even more elfin. "And you can't sleep—you almost don't even want to. It's like having an addiction. Like going through withdrawal." She pauses. "You know what I mean?"

Jacob's hands are clenched into a fist. His shoulders gave out shivers ever once in a while. He looked pale. He pushes his fingers through his shaggy, matted locks then sighs, trying to ignore that instinctive flood of anger streaming in his blood. "Can't say that I do."

"Oh."

Jacob sits up and props his arms up on the side of the couch. "Hey, Janie?"

January's arched brow soared, raising in that expert, fluid motion only she can manage. She alternates her storm gray gaze between his sunken eyes to his hands. "That wasn't an invitation, Jay-cub." She explains pointedly.

It takes Jacob a minute to realize what she's talking about. Then he flushed, his neck growing hot and his ears on fire. He retracts his arms immediately, and tussled his hair in frustration. He glares at her with as much ferocity as anyone can gather against an elf.

"I wasn't—that's not what I was doing! Honestly, the things you assume..." He splutters, shifting with unease.

January rolls her eyes skyward, "Relax. I was just joking."

It wasn't funny. Jacob just grunts, and lets her have her little moment of sadistic fun. He wounds his finger around a piece of thread at the hem of his shirt. He's suddenly brought back to that night in Medora, North Dakota. Brought back to that conversation with Embry and Scarlet Kaysen. The 'manly healing'. And he echoes, "What did he say? Before he took off?"

"_I_ took off." She corrects him without as much as a glance in his direction. "I don't know, I mean I just don't feel right ever since I broke my leg. It's like—I don't feel like the same January anymore. And it just wasn't fair to Peter." She shrugs, "I ended things."

"—Before he can end them with you."

January grinned, "Peter would've never ended things with me. He's much too nice. Even if I made his life a living hell, he would've found some way to tough it out. It's part of the Pretty Peter complex."

Jacob keeps his expression perfect stoic, "What you're saying is that you dumped him so that he won't get his heart broken."

"Do you think I'm a terrible person?" The words were uttered quietly, as if she needed his assurance. She's chewing on her bottom lip, her snowy skin frosted white and silvery irises glimmering lowly. He doesn't recall ever seeing Janie vulnerable. She always seemed so brazen and carefree. Like nothing ever got under her skin and stayed there. Like she can always just shake it off like the rain.

He swallowed, his throat feels tight. "No." He whispers, "I don't." Her chest deflated, and the sharp, agitated planes of her face softened ever-so slightly. A ghostly smile tugged at his lips, "Do you think it's worth it? For Peter?"

There's an odd expression on her face. A cross between curiosity and bewilderment. She tells him, "Peter's special because he's special to me." She looks into his dark eyes and Jacob can tell that they're both broken; damaged goods. Two different molds made from the same fabric..

"Your sentimentality doesn't make him special," Jacob disagrees with a raise of his brows.

January shrugs, half-arguing and half-sadly, "You're only insignificant if nobody loves you." She states firmly. She falls back onto the couch with a sigh. Rolling onto her back, she adds somewhat cruelly, "I guess that means we're the insignificant ones," Her impish grin made his heart stutter, "You and me. Pretty funny punch line, isn't it?"

Jacob isn't sure how he should respond to that. Part of him is insulted—an old, old part of him that still bristles at the memory of best-friend-Jacob's humble reflection. Another part is a little hurt, and he tries to shun that part, because it makes him feel small and foolish. His face is hot, as if he's blushing, so he's thankful for the lack of light.

He asks casually, "How do you suggest we solve this issue at hand?"

Janie closes her eyes, "I say let's just get together and let that be the end of it."

Jacob smiled.

* * *

Jacob Black pulls open his eyes groggily. He had just fell into the deepest sleep he had in a long time. He felt so comfortable that he thought he might've been dead if not for a repeated, light smacking against his foot.

"Mm—hmm?"

"You don't sleep naked, do you?" Comes the quiet, crisp voice from the foot of the bed. Janie's bed. Janie's bed is in the shape of a racecar. Very very much like her.

He scrubs his hand over his face. "What?" His voice is hoarse, his eyes bleary.

"What are you wearing?" She persists, sounding exasperated. Well, it wasn't like it's his fault. She raises her voice to aid his lagging comprehension.

"Um," He shakes his head in order to clear the growing fog there, bedfuddled. "Not much." A pair of dark blue boxers, that's it.

She lets out a huff, then presses on impatiently, "But you _are_ wearing _something_, right?"

"Ye-ahhh? Why?" He frowns sleepily, "Is something wrong?"

"No," She whispers briskly, walking around the edge of the bed, "Just go back to sleep." Flipping up the corner of the blanket, he feels her slipping in. He scoots closer to the wall to accommodate her as she shifts to make herself comfortable.

"You know, I don't sleep with girls on the first date." He reminds her. _Not that he's complaining._

Her answer comes swiftly and dryly, "I assure you that your record remains untarnished, then."

He couldn't understand her. Damn it, he can barely comprehend her words on a regular basis when he's fully awake. It's only natural that he hasn't got a clue what she's saying now. Why did she insist on being so goddamn articulate in the middle of the night, anyway? "So?" He asks dumbly.

"So, I'm just a figment of your imagination, Jay-cub." She snaps in a weary tone. She is not so nice in the night, Jacob decides.

"Oh." He drops his head back against the pillow thoughtfully, "That would explain it."

She stretches, the smooth curves of her legs running briefly against his knee. Her skin is warm. The only sort of noticeable warmth he's used to feeling in his bed when he rolls over into a spot he vacated moments before. Someone else's body heat feels foreign and overly conspicuous, as if his nerves are suddenly hypersensitive.

_This must've been what she's talking about when she talked about withdrawal_, he assumes astutely.

People. They come and go. _Insignificant_.

But Jacob Black hopes that him and Janie will stay the same for a very, very long time, because for once in his life—he just can't bear to let go.

* * *

**End Note:**

**This chapter is a bit of a filler but I thought it was important because it hightlights the beginning of Jacob's relationship and kind of the entire NATURE of their relationship. It's definitely a start for them. An unusual and kind of hesitant start, but a start nonetheless. Thank you so much for the overwhelming support over the last few chapters, you guys! You've really been the best readers in the whole wide world. And I PROMISE that I'll give ya'll a shoutout in the next chapter. **

**Question of the day: What's your favorite part of this chapter? Favorite line? What did you think of Embry's story?**

**And for those of you who are interested, I have a NEW STORY out called 'ELLE WORDS' and it's also a Jacob/OC story. It's slightly darker and more cynical but I'm afraid as hell of it and would be SUPER pleased if you guys went and checked it out. Drop me a line and tell me what you think, cool? Cool. **

**--Loves, Kitty.**


	10. Here

**The Man With Few Words**

"_Women have a wonderful instinct about things. They can discover everything but the obvious." –Oscar Wilde_

* * *

_Chapter 10_

January Jansen is sort of being a jerk-face.

Jacob Black woke up in the familiar racecar bed, in the familiar canary-yellow walled of January Jansen's _Alice in Wonderland_ house. He has been spending the last four nights here. And he loved it. He loves waking up to Janie occupying the big armchair on the opposite side of the room, all curled up with a book with her messy hair and sloppy grin. He loves how that hole in his chest doesn't hurt anymore. He's sure it's still there; a scar, a void, a remainder of what once was but could never be. But it doesn't bother him anymore.

He loves the feeling Janie gives him. Making him feel all tingly and light-headed. He loves it. All of it.

"You snore," Is the first thing that greets Jacob's ears when he awakens in the morning.

His face feels hot. His head is turned to the side, and he realizes that he's got his mouth wide-open, nearly swallowing the pillow. He closes it and tries not to feel embarrassed when his jaw cracked. He blinks away the last traces of sleep from his dark eyes and frowns sourly.

"That's a lie." He declares ceremoniously, "That's a—" He yawns enormously, "_damn_ lie."

Jerk-face. She's sitting cross-legged in her usual spot, her lips cattishly quirked into a grin and her jet-black hair deliciously tousled. She's leafing through a _Cosmopolitan_ magazine with great interest although her stormy eyes would shift up to him every few seconds. Jacob didn't want to break the peace between them so he stretches carefully, pushing his legs out and arching his spine so that it cracked audibly.

"You do." She insists lazily, waving a dismissive hand. "Not constantly. But you make up for the lulls by sounding like a damn tractor every hour or so. I kept dreaming I was back in Carolina." She pauses, then adds in an afterthought, "On a hay farm."

"You're making that up." Comes Jacob's simple response.

Janie laughs. She presses on, "How can somebody live as long as you and not know they snore? You must not have had many bedmates. Guess that _Sex and Your Sanity _article you read is one hell of a convincing read."

Jacob Black scowled. All right, yes. He admits it. He had once picked up that copy of _Cosmopolitan_ and very, _very_ casually skimmed across a few pages. That's it. And the article just happened to be titled 'Sex and Your Sanity' and suggested that those who have sex often are more likely to develop a mental illness.

It was all Janie's fault. Because if she hadn't went into the bathroom to brush her teeth, then he wouldn't have became bored and started reading the goddamn thing. Then he wouldn't got sucked into its surprisingly persuasive argument and get completely absorbed so that January finds him, moments later, sitting up in bed and intently mulling over the topic.

"Would you shut up about that magazine?" There's no real fire in that rejoinder. But the lingering haze of sleep won't allow humiliation. In fact, this is probably the most comfortable argument he's ever taken part in. "Anyway, I've probably had more than you."

That was a lie. Janie's probably gotten way more action than he has. She was a cheerleader, after all.

January chirps, beaming, "I find that doubtful." She retorts and quirks a boyish brow.

The comment made his eyes widen marginally. He hadn't really expected her to respond and he doesn't quite know why but the fact that she did made him nervous. He scrunches his nose, trying to fight that off that wave of emotion that makes him feel small and foolish. Suddenly self-conscious, he demands, "Why? How many have you had?"

"Some."

He blanches, "_Some_?" Then upon realizing how big of a prude he sounded, he tries on the passive, brooding look he loves to sport and prompts, "Don't be coy, Jan-U-airy. Scandalize me."

She seems uncomfortable now, both with the question and the memories. January didn't like talking about her past much. Her childhood, yes, that was fine. But when it broaches during the New York years, she becomes withdrawn. She always answers his inquiries, but as simple as she can. Jacob knew that her broken leg bothered her more than she let on.

"How many have _you_ had?" She interrogates back, silvery eyes flickering.

He draws in a long inhalation, then releases it in a pensive whoosh. "All right, so I snore." He allows reluctantly. "Any more complaints? And might I remind you that I am a guest here?"

"Guest...really?" She repeats, noting his brush-off but not commenting. "I suppose that's Jacob-speak for _moocher_. And yes, actually, I do have one more." She's raising that infuriating brow and wearing a smug look that made her look so sexy that it was making Jacob uncomfortable. Because Janie was an elf, and he felt awkward thinking an elf was sexy.

He clears his throat, "Namely?" He prompts.

"Next time you wake up needing to pee," She rolls her silvery irises melodramatically. "Could you find a better way to get out of bed than just rolling over me like I'm made of feathers and fluff? I thought I was being mauled by a bear for a second. A huge, Carolina Mountain bear—"

"I forgot you were there!" He protests loudly, tossing his arms up into the air. "It was as disturbing as it was for me as it was for you—"

But Janie continued on as if she didn't hear him, "I kept on dreaming that I was back in Carolina, on that hay farm, and this bear was like...attacking me." He snorts and makes indignant grunts. "And I felt like I was being flippin' _roasted_." He shifts uncomfortably at that remark. "I feel like I'm sleeping next to a radiator sometimes, or those car seats that heat up..."

He interrupts warily, "All right. I get the idea. It's duly noted."

"Excellent."

There's a moment of silence inserted here. Mornings are always sort of strange and disorientated for Jacob. He feels as if he's not fully awake in this world of soft beds and clean sheets and magical Janie. He's always certain that he's going to actually wake up to his couch and mangy Snuggie and an empty house. The perfection of things makes him uneasy.

So he asks, "What are you reading?"

"It's a list of questions I should ask my boyfriend." January replies without as much as a second of hesitation. She's sitting sideways on her armchair so that her legs are dangling off the sides and her hair's spilling over everywhere.

Jacob's irritated that she doesn't go on. "Well, what does it say?"

Janie gives him a weird, puzzled expression. "I'm not going to ask you. You're not my boyfriend." She declares childishly.

Obviously, January hadn't meant for it to sound so harsh. And obviously, Jacob shouldn't have taken offense in it, because after all, she was right and he wasn't her boyfriend. But it still left a sharp sting in his chest and makes him flush in embarrassment.

"I just want to know what it says." He mumbles angrily.

Janie examines him with stormy eyes. He feels small and foolish for feeling that way and the fact that she sensed it made the entire ordeal exponentially more awkward. "All right then," She chirps after a beat, swinging her legs over then tucking them neatly under her. "First question: What's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to you?"

Jacob bristled and he immediately wished that he _hadn't_ Janie about her stupid survey. _Cosmopolitan_ does nothing for him. He should've known.

He doesn't want to answer, much rather just stay silent but January is staring at him with expectant, charcoal irises that make his skin burn and his face hot. So he scowls, scrunching his great face into an angry pucker, then proceeds to pick through his mind. For a minute, he lets himself think to being 16 year-old Jacob. When things were complicated and magical and so, _so_ very painful. For him and for her both, he supposes.

He can remember saying lots of romantic crap to her. Crap about being the shining sun and being the air she breathes and being her marijuana or LSD or whatever the fuck she needed him to be. He was always there. Every time. But dear God, in this instance, he could not—not for the life of him—think of _one_ thing she said that really yanked on his heartstrings or put him on a high. He just remembers the brooding and the frowning.

And a hell load of rejection.

He sighs warily, squinting his dark eyes to try to file through the foggy thoughts. Perhaps he was overlooking something. Oh, he's got one. "Once. She told me that I was kind of beautiful." Yeah. That's pretty romantic, right?

January blinks her owl-eyes. She asks, "What do you think is the most romantic thing _I_ ever said to you?"

"Gee, I don't know." He snorts, "I thought 'you snore' was pretty ground-breaking." She laughs her little bell-chime chuckle. "Well, what's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to you?" He's willingly to bet that freakin' _Peter_'s got some pretty good lines. It must've been something devastatingly poetic.

Her head's tilted, making all of her long, silly hair spill over her shoulders. Her pretty, pretty face is soft and wonderfully elfin. Her lips curved into a boyish grin, "Hmm..." She hums thoughtfully, smiling down at the magazine, "When I broke my leg," Her long, slender fingers dance over the ugly wound automatically, as if protecting it. "Peter came to see me before my surgery. I guess it was just the—the fear of knowing I'll never dance again, and the _shock_ that my leg was actually crushed. I don't know, whatever it was, I just _couldn't_ stop crying. And I remember Peter. I remember him promising that he'll make everything okay." She focuses those silvery eyes on him. "That was the important thing, you know. That...he'll do whatever it takes." She stares dreamily up at the ceiling, "I think I felt a great satisfaction knowing that his heart was breaking for me."

There's a moment of tense silence.

Jacob feels obligated to break it. He begins reluctantly, "So...I take it this..." He gestured to the air between the two of them. Janie stared at him cluelessly. He clears his throat, "I take that this is permanent, then?" He feels obligated to clarify, "_Us_?" Once again, his cheeks flushed. He felt young and naive and so very unfit to ask Janie this question. But he wants her to stay. He wants to be there for her.

If she'll let him.

"Permanent is a strong word."

"Semi-permanent?" Jacob Black suddenly realizes that perhaps this isn't a good idea and that he's brought it up too soon. Not that it mattered, because Jacob was never good at this whole 'timing' thing and he figures, let's get things straightened out and he doesn't care if he seems forward. He knows what he wants.

She shrugs from her position at the armchair and raises a cautious brow. She cocks her head and flashes a coy, crooked smile. "Why does it matter?" She uncurls her long legs. She's wearing a long, silky stocking on her injured leg. It bothers him.

"It doesn't." He answers back blankly. He's lying.

She grins, sinking back, "Permanent or not, it'll end when it wants to." January didn't like the idea of commitment. It isn't that she was afraid of it and it isn't that she doesn't like him. To Janie, it was just something pointless. Relationships will fall rather or not you promised forever. If you fall in love with someone else, then that's that. No matter how hard you try to salvage things; patch things up, you can't stop the inevitable. There are no happily-ever-afters. There are no plans. No lovers' oaths.

January Jansen would say, '_Just let it run its course, Jay-cub. Just let it run._'

They're together now and they're in a good place. What else more is there?

* * *

They slip into a comfortable groove over the course of the next few weeks. They go out for ice cream and dinner; sometimes, they have curry at that nice Indian place down the street. Or if Janie's anxious to get out more, they'll walk the trail. If her leg's bothering her and she's too proud to admit it, he takes her to the cinema.

He takes her over to Port Angeles and they watch that nice, handsome fellow she likes with the elf ears and the bowl-shaped haircut—(Spork? Spank?). Whatever. He pretends to be entertained by phaser guns and steals Janie's popcorn.

They stroll in the park afterwards. And he shows her where he used to go to school before he _cracked up_ (Janie-speak for saying that he brooded). Some days, they just hang out in her house. She jibes him about his plaid shirts and his sex-book, and he makes a cheerleader joke or two.

He would swear they're having fun, but he never asks: _Do you like it here? _It was an ominous question, treading onto some uncertain, dangerous ground. If he takes another step forward, he might fall into a sinkhole. And Jacob wasn't sure if he was ready to fall for her.

At night, they share a bed. He becomes accustomed to her presence there, and she to his, so typically it comes off without a hitch.

Typically.

One early morning, he jolts awake to find her head laying near by his knee and her feet tucked under his chin. It was quite an uncomfortable position and if it were anyone else, Jacob would've thrown a fit. But January smells like the ocean and flowers, and she's so incredibly warm. It burns his throat.

Carefully, he grabs a hold of her ankle and moves it onto his shoulder just so that he can _breath_ again because she's digging her heel into his larynx and he had nearly suffocated. He didn't mean for his hand to spider up her calf and splay across her knee like a tender caress. Oops.

But then he catches sight of that angry, smirking scar and he flinches back, quickly averting his eyes. He feels like he's seeing something he's not supposed to. Janie is always so careful to keep it out of his watchful gaze. He gets the odd sense that he's violating her privacy and if she were awake, she would've been angry at him.

So he carefully tucks the injured leg under the covers and presses a lingering kiss onto the good leg.

"Mmm..." January makes a little humming noise in her throat.

He freezes as she shifts closer to him, in fact, basically throwing herself over his knee. She mumbles something in her sleep. It's unintelligible, but one syllable sounds just a little too similar to _Pete..._

As Jacob draws away and flips onto his other side, he jars the mattress with as much space as possible in order to end whatever disgusting dream she'd begun courtesy of _his_ touch. This was supposed to be his moment, damn it. When she follows him, running her toes briefly along his ribcage, his shudder is accompanied by a pronounced scowl of discontent.

There was a line; a gap; a hole between the two of them. One that however hard they try, they just can't seem to fill. They are strangers as much as they are friends. He hasn't told her about Sam. Or Emily. Or the exploding-out-of-his-skin-and-becoming-a-werewolf thing.

And January is hiding something from him. He knows that. He isn't stupid.

So he never asks: _Do you like it here?_

She's here. What more does he require?

* * *

**End Note:**

**I'm so devastatingly sorry that this chapter is coming to you about...2 months later than I intended for it to. It's just that school's been particularly crazy and I've been struck with a massive writer's block but I thank you all for sticking it out with me and I KNOW this chapter is a little shorter than my standard ones but I promise I'll make it up to you with a LONG chapter 11. Sound good?**

**The reason why this chapter was so hard to progress with was because it's a bit of a filler and I do quite awful with those. I did plan for some advancement at first but it just didn't seem right and I just KNOW that I would be rushing it if I just hurried and forgotten to give things a little time to...rest, I suppose. **

**This chapter is written mostly in a more retrospective view and mostly on the development between Jacob and Janie, which I think is very important, because it can't all be rainbows and hot sex, right? Anyways, drop me a line about how you think this is going and what you think because it's just wonderful knowing what you guys like and dislike about this story. **

**Question of the day: A lot of you have made me a suggestion about how this story is mostly written in Jacob's POV. It is actually 3rd person, but of course limited. So my question is, if you could sneak a peek into someone else's head, who's would it be? January? Sam? PETER?! And of course, what were your favorite moments and lines? The serious ones or the funny ones?**

**Thank you so much for all your support. **

**--Lovessss, Kitty.**


	11. Things She Left Behind

**The Man With Few Words**

_"__The secret of love is seeking variety in your life together, and never letting routine chords dull the melody of your romance." –Anonymous_

* * *

_Chapter Eleven_

_Peter Petrelli_

The alarm clock on Peter Petrelli's bedside table bleeped out an obnoxious honking noise, abruptly shaking the young man out of his nearly comatose slumber with a jolt. He reaches out blindly, outstretching his long arms, clawing for the source of the noise, palm slapping for the snooze button.

He lies in a tangle of bedsheets and floppy hair, half-conscious with his forearm pushed tightly into the socket of his eyes. He's much too tired to move but his mind is already doing their automatic organizing. _He's still behind on the clinic hours he promised his hospital Dean. There's a woman who's coming in for her scheduled pre-natal exam and he's her attending physician. Mr. Emerson is due for another prescription refill for his ulcer. _

He hadn't gotten home until 2:30 last night due to some traffic pileup in the middle of Time Square that made him stay well past his shift. When he'd finally taken care the last of his assigned patients, Nathan, a friend of his that's also working on his residency, rushed to Peter and confessed that his son was sick and that he wasn't going to be able to finish his shift. He asks if there was any way if Peter can complete his hours for him, offering him a desperate wad of cash.

Peter grinned weakly and told Nathan to go see his son. He also told him to keep the money for some antibiotics for Nathan Jr.

People warned him that one of these days, he was going to work himself to death. So he had promised that one of these days, he'd take the day off and do something nice for himself. But it just seems like there's always something coming up. There are always tests in the lab he needs to run. There are always patients he has to see. There's always medical school. He can't afford to miss a day. Not now.

The alarm clock is flashing 6:30. He needs to be reporting at the hospital in an hour. With the New York City traffic, he'll be lucky if he can beat the first mob of rush hours. Peter tells himself that he needs to get up now. He needs to shower and change and get coffee. He needs to finish the charts he owes the nurse. He needs to get over to _New York Presbytarian Hospital_ and start making his daily rounds.

The clock is still buzzing.

He murmurs into the darkness, frustrated with not being able to silence it, "Jan. Jan, get the alarm, will you?" His hand is searching for her familiar form. Searching for that tell-tale bundle of raven hair and rail-thin form. But there's nothing in his bed except a hollow imprint, the kind of imprint you only get when someone's been sleeping in that same spot for years and the mattress has taken and molded into that shape. Unnerved by the lack of response, Peter hollers again, mind still foggy with fatigue, "January, can you please shut that off?"

Nothing. The clock is still going strong.

Peter's hand, which is working a wrinkle onto his forehead, pauses for a second, then drops completely from his face. He turns onto his side, reality finally bleeding it's way into his retinas, and deftly clicks off the digital alarm. He lets out a whoosh of breath, chest deflating before finally sitting up.

January. His _Jan_. She was in La Push, Washington. That's right.

He laughs lightly, feeling foolish and heartbroken yet again. He's done this at least a dozen times. He can't even count how many times he's woken up in the middle of the night, hopelessly calling her name or probed for her narrow waist. He misses her terribly. The thought of rather his feelings are reciprocated haunts him deep. Instances where he's tempted to buy a ticket, fly over to where she is, and tell her that life without her is torture and that he can simply bear no more.

But perhaps she was happy where she is. Perhaps she has found someone else. He knows that she needs time to heal. He knows that she has a tendency to run away. He also knows that the more he chases, the further it'll drive her. So he'll wait. Wait until she runs back into his arms; she will eventually. She always does.

Peter Petrelli rolls out of bed with practiced ease, his palm cupping the back of his neck, where it's strained and tight. He trots habitually into the kitchen, already clad in the trousers he was wearing yesterday, his tie hanging off his wrist. His dark hair is too girlishly long, always falling distractingly into his eyes as he worked. He's long overdue for a trim, yet whenever he picks up the bathroom shears or halt in front of the salon door, his muscles would clench in a completely awful way, and he would find himself walking away despite his intentions.

He refuses to think about the way she always smiled whenever he complained about his floppy bangs. The way she'd curl the strands around her long fingers and pleads for him not to cut it. _"It's just so pretty, Peter. Promise me you won't clip it."_ Then he'd smile in that lopsided fashion he saves just for her, _"I promise."_

After a pot of coffee, nearly burning his tongue off in the process, he's fully awake now, therefore is racing through the apartment like a madman. He hops into the shower, hunts for a shirt, then shaves quickly all within 15 minutes. He's scouring the medicine cabinet for deodorant when a slip of ribbon falls out and flutters gracefully into the sink.

"_I can't believe you still wear those ribbons."_

"_Why not? You bought them for me."_

Peter Petrelli spends the next 10 minutes sitting on the rim of the bathtub with his head between his knees and a strip of scarlet ribbon thread through his fingers. He hates these little slips. These little relapses. Last week, he found a pair of her old pointe shoes and nearly had a mental breakdown. The cramped apartment is filled with her presence. Her clothes, her perfume, her soul. A few months ago, Jan stood at this very door and informed him that she can't take it anymore. The surgery, the pain, the memories. She can't live here anymore—can't see him anymore. Then she lugged her suitcase out the door, mismatched colors leaping in the bitter New York cold, her silvery eyes lost of their luster. Ever since then, he's tried to purge the place of her. He's hid all the stuff she accidentally left in a closet he never goes into because her scent lingers too heavily in there. He keeps the place immaculately clean instead of January's preferred way of organized chaos. He raided the fridge, throwing out all the ice cream. He emptied out the drawer where she keeps her cigarettes but thinks that he doesn't know about it.

Then afterwards, when the apartment feels hollow and alien to even him, he sat down on the couch then picked up the phone. He dials the number from memory. He waits. The line rings many times. So many times, in fact, that Peter almost gave up.

_The buzzing stops, interrupted by a clear, crisp soprano, "Hello, its January."_

"_H-hey, Jan. It...it's Peter. I just wanted to call and make sure that you're settling in all right. How are you? Do you need any help? How's everything going?"_

_There's silence for a long while. A terse, tense silence he hasn't heard since their high school days. Peter didn't like this. He didn't like having to initiate conversations. Jan was always so affectionate towards him, and this new, damaged one in her place is throwing him for a loop. _

_She demands harshly, although he likes to think that she didn't really mean it, "What do you want? I thought I told you not to call."_

"_I was worried." Peter knows better than to get angry or hurt. He keeps his voice passive and calm, the way he always is with her. "I had to know that you were okay."_

_A heavy sigh. "I am. I just—I just want to get away from it all and...and I miss you a lot and I'm just trying not to let it get to me. Peter...I won't be able to get over it if you keep calling—"_

"—_How's your leg?" He interjects. He doesn't want to hear all the reasons why she wants to get away from him. He doesn't want to know why she's doing this to him. Hasn't he done all he could? Then why isn't she here? Why is it that whatever he does; however hard he tries, it doesn't ever seem to be enough? Enough to make her stay?_

_Another silence. She doesn't react as volatile as he thought she would. She replies softly, "I'll be fine." Another shuddering breath. "Goodbye, Peter. I'll miss you."_

_And with those haunting words, she walked out of his life._

---

Peter Petrelli has always loved the hospital. It's often considered weird but he's felt this way ever since he was young. He's always been an old soul; serene and at peace. When he was a child, he'd sit quietly in the hospital and he'd just watch. Watch the nurses bustle around, the doctors striding confidently with clipboards in their hands. Sure, there'd be sadness. There'd be misery, heartbreak, pain. But also joy, relief, _love_. The look on someone's face when they found out that their loved one is saved. They'd squeezed their eyes tight, whispering fiercely: "Thank _God_." As they smiled at the doctors as if they just made everything in the world right again. Those doctors...they always made it look so effortless, like they could do no wrong. They walk with their shoulders squared and every step had such a definite purpose.

Peter wanted that.

Nobody was surprised when Peter announced that he wants to be a doctor. Mom was just relieved that he decided against the Air Force option; she couldn't stand the idea of losing her innocent pretty boy with the most soulful eyes she's ever seen. Peter was born with a simple hero complex. Whenever he was needed, he'd appear outside your window, waiting to be let in. Peter is gentle and polite with everybody, it's the only way he knows how to be. But he's also fervent and passionate, just different than the brash, brazen style people often are.

From the first moment Peter Petrelli met January Jansen, he knew they were going to walk a long path together. He supposes it's the perfect alliteration of their name that convinced him. He tries to suppress the silly, unreal emotions bubbling inside of him at first. _He's just anxious_, he told himself. How he ever fell for that lie, he can never fathom but while those feelings were still developing, blossoming and blooming inside his chest like a fire, unfurling until he's sure that he would burst: it was easy to believe in the lies he told himself.

Jan's smile makes his stomach quiver with excitement: _he's just anxious_. January's fingers are tangled with his as they compared palm sizes: _he's just anxious_. His breath is caught as she leans up real close and plays with his ear: _he's just anxious_. The list grew longer and longer, as did his frustration. He was tired, he was bored, he was nervous. He was anything, _anything_, but attracted to January.

But in due time, January Jansen came out into the open. She told him the honest truth, without a single blush coloring her cheeks, that she loved him and _does he or doesn't he love her back_? Because she's tired of being led around like some lovesick puppy dog.

From that moment on, Peter Petrelli couldn't find it within himself to leave January Jansen ever again. He balances her well. She's impulsive, spontaneous, blunt. He's thoughtful, pensive, and dignified. He doesn't ever snap back at her. When she screams at him, he stands there and he takes it. When she accuses him of things that aren't his fault, he accepts the blame.

Peter Petrelli is there when she needs him. But most importantly, he's there even when she doesn't.

---

In the _New York Presbytarian Hospital_, Peter is doing his daily rounds in the clinic when he slides into one of the exam rooms and finds one of January's dancer friends staring wide-eyed at him.

He didn't recognize her at first. He's got his head ducked down low, studying her medical history, introducing briefly, "Hi. I'm Dr. Petrelli and I'll be taking care of you today." He flips a page, "What seems to be the problem...Angela?"

Sitting on the recliner chair is a tall, skinny brunette with blue eyes that seem to crowd her small face accompanied with an overall vibe that seemed just too familiar from a stranger. She's blinking her owl-eyes at him while he stands awkwardly, one hand still on the handle of the door, "Peter Petrelli? Is that you? January's Peter?"

He squints his sleepy, droopy irises, "Um...excuse me? I apologize, have we met?"

The brunette flashes him a wide, empty smile that looks too practiced or too forced. "Yeah. I danced in the Company with January? You probably don't remember me. We only met once—you know, when she, uh..." She swallows, somehow reliving the moment, and remembering that it's her fault for breaking her goddamn shoelace. "When she broke her leg. You probably didn't notice with all the things going on."

Peter is stunned. He nods, a little numb. He's not sure what that day meant. It's all such a vivid blur. Peter's always preferred to let things of the past remain in the past. There's no point in peeling back the scabs, was there? "Right." He answers, and if his expression suddenly appears fatigued or wary, she pretends not to notice. "It says here that you sprained your ankle. I'll just tape you up and set you up for a brace. Take it easy for a few weeks and you'll be just fine."

_The way January will never be._ The bitter thought swims in Peter's mind and he's shocked to find just the faintest hint of animosity towards this brunette. The vague, angry suspicion that this is all her fault. Peter stumbles back, nervously searching for the door. He'll tell Nathan to finish her up. He's too compromised to be treating her.

He's almost completely out the door, but she hollers at him, "W-wait!" He pauses, pushing his girlish hair back. He didn't dare to breathe. "Is—how is she? January. Is she all right? We all miss her a lot. I mean, I know how she won't, won't be able to..." She doesn't seem to have the courage to finish. She changes her question, "How are you guys doing?"

Peter Petrelli grits his teeth together. He tries to fight down the cold flood of panic and irritation swelling in the hollow of his chest. _He's anxious, he's nervous, he's tired._ He's anything but angry. Peter doesn't have the pleasure to be angry. He can't afford it. The muscle in his neck twitched as his back grew rigid. Chills are spiking down his body but his neck is burning. He sets his jaw and responds, wishing he didn't sound so unsympathetic yet not quite being able to help it, "How do you _think_ we're doing?"

---

Break-time. Peter Petrelli isn't fond of the concept of break-time. Break-time was a gap in the regime. An empty hole in his otherwise filled up calendar. With his studies at Cornell Medical School, his residency at the hospital, as well as specialized training hours, there usually isn't much time left for anything else. He used to try to sneak time out. He'd rush through his homework, skip out on volunteering hours just so he can come home to a smiling January Jansen. But there's no point now. So he picks up extra shifts, he writes his essays ahead of time, he hangs around doctors that didn't mind him.

He doesn't want time alone. He doesn't want to let his brain slow down enough because once it does, he knows where his thoughts are going to drift to. When he works, the images of her are still there of course, glued onto the inside of his eyelids, but it's a dull, throbbing pain at the back of his head. He can get through that. With enough work and bustling, he does. But when he sits down with a cup of coffee in the lounge, the darkness of the room shrouding him, the softness of the couch much like the one he has at home. He sits alone frequently. And he remembers her.

Usually, her twin brother calls during this time. He attends NYU, just like she had. They never go anywhere without each other so when Jan decided that _Juilliard_ was it for her, Jude followed her without a question. He phones and asks Peter out to dinner or to watch a baseball game. She's a sore subject with the both of them so it's usually easy to avoid her presence from cropping up. She didn't tell Jude where she is though. She only told him. Made him promise to keep it a secret. But whenever Jude asks him quietly, his eyes the exact startling shade of gray as hers, "Have you heard from January?" He can't help but wonder if he's doing the right thing.

He told himself that he was going to call. He told himself that he needed to check if she was all right. He told himself he'd buy a plane ticket and fly over there one of these days. _Tomorrow, even. _There's an old, nagging, heroic part of him that tells him this is all a big mistake. That she doesn't need time to heal, she just needs him. So why doesn't he go after her? But a bigger part of him, a rational, logical part that might also be a little too proud for his own good, is warning him to mind his own business because this is what Jan wants and he wants her to be happy, doesn't he?

Peter Petrelli stares at the phone. He's just going to drop off a message for her. He's going to act civil and ask her if he can come over for a visit. Maybe they can go out to dinner. Maybe they can talk. She'll like that won't she?

_Tomorrow,_ he tells himself. He'll do it tomorrow morning. Vaguely, he recalls saying the exact same thing yesterday. And the day before that. And before that. And the month before that. _Today, then. He'll call her right now._

He walks over to the corner of the resting lounge, the receiver of the phone booth feels too heavy in his hands. His palms are sweaty. Swallowing the cotton stifling his mouth, he tosses in a few coins. He's left his cell phone in his locker but no matter, the number is ingrained in his mind. He presses it without even thinking about it.

The phone rings. It rings. It _rings_ a third time. On the fourth time, it's supposed to go to the machine. Peter Petrelli is ready for it. He knows exactly what he's going to say. He's got it all planned out.

"—_the hell_? Hello?" Comes a husky, drowsy voice. A voice that most definitely does not belong to January. Peter froze; flabbergasted, incredulous. He's got the wrong number. That must be it. "W-what—_Hello_?" The gruff voice demands again, sounding incredibly sleepy. Peter checks his watch. It's 12:14 AM. New York is 3 hours ahead, but still, January would've let it go to voice mail.

The panic attack is back at full force now. The same one he got in the exam room. Peter's starting to think that this is becoming a permanent condition. His throat is closing up and his chest feels as if it's smothered with ice. "I...I'm sorry." He can't speak. His words sound slurred. He wets his lips, shoves his hair back. "Is January there?"

"Wha-who, oh." Peter hopes he gets told that he has the wrong number. "Oh, um...yeah. She's here. Hang on." There's shuffling followed by heavy, uncoordinated footsteps. The unknown man with the deep, throaty baritone hollers, "Janie? Janie." He must've walked into somewhere with the TV on because he can hear animated dialogue in the background. Peter didn't realize that he's gripped the case around the telephone so tightly, his palm is bleeding. "—looking for you...some guy, pick up—damn phone...was having a nice dream." Were the scattered phrases he heard.

Then the speaker transferred over. That haunting, crisp chirp, "Hello, its January."

Peter Petrelli hangs up. He can't breathe. He slides down bonelessly onto the floor. He clutches his head in his hands. He can feel the wet blood smearing across his cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose.

There's a good excuse for this. He was probably a friend. A friend spending the night. January's always been good at that sort of thing. Charming men. She's good at it, but they never mean anything to her, because she always comes back to him. She'll get bored. She'll get restless with the suburban lifestyle. Yes. That's it.

Soon, he'll be able to fly over there and she'll realize how much she misses him. He massages his temples. He'll have to check with his Dean about vacation time. He'll have to talk to all of his professors. Somebody will need to take over his clinic duty for a while.

Absently, he twirls the silver band on his finger. He glances down at it and frowns. _It's a promise to Jan_, he reminds himself. _Does she still wear hers? _He wonders if she still has it, or is it one of the many things she left behind, hidden away in a drawer somewhere.

A shrill beeping cuts into the dense air. Peter gasps in surprise, his mind reeling back into reality. It takes him a few moments to pinpoint where the noise came from and a few more moments to gain enough senses to fumble for the pager vibrating against his pelvis. The fluorescent light of the screen burned his corneas. _Blue, L3R12_ read the message. His patient was coding. A seizure most probably if it were blue. He stands up shakily, ignoring the persistent ache in his chest, the throb in the back of his mind. He massages his temples again, pinching the narrow gap between his furrowed brows. He finds some gauze to wrap up his injured hand then in one fluid motion, shoves his mussed dark hair back. He's got to get a hold of himself. He needs to go back to calm Peter. Back to unperturbed Peter with expressive eyes and reassuring, poetic grins.

_Tomorrow_, he decides. _He'll buy the ticket __tomorrow__._

* * *

_Jacob Black_

They were discovered by Jared and Paul in Janie's backyard.

Jacob Black has never been a secretive person. There was just never much he needed to keep from the Pack and then with the phasing and everything, he couldn't keep secrets even if he wanted to. Yet when Janie and him started this little tryst of theirs, he doesn't know what got into him but...he just wanted to keep it under wraps. He wanted to have just a little privacy for once in his life. He wants _something_—_anything_—for himself.

_The way January Jansen slid into Jacob's life, it was like she's always been there. _

Ever since Bella, Jacob grew tired of people. He grew tired of pretending to be happy; of pining for someone who just didn't care. Mostly, he just grew tired of trying. Jacob learned a lot from his heartbreak. He learned that feelings are something you can't force. He learned that some wishes just never come true. He learned that you don't need people in order to live.

All people do is ask him questions. How are you feeling? What happened with Bella? Are you going to be okay? He doesn't want to answer because he doesn't know the answer. He just wants everyone to leave him alone. All he wants is to brood. He wants to brood, run, then brood some more.

_The way January Jansen slid into Jacob's life, it was like she's always been there._

Jacob Black hated dealing with people with problems—even just listening to their problems—because once he deals with them, he has to deal with their problems too. Jacob's mind is like a sanctuary; allowing someone to tell him their problems was like letting them move a little bit of themselves inside him, and the first time hadn't gone well.

Jacob's always worried that he'll never let anyone again. He didn't mind being alone, but he didn't like it either. So when January danced into his life, it was perfect. The hole in his chest is filled with cotton and a distinctively warm substance. Jacob knows that it might not necessarily be _real_, that it might just slip through his fingertips, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything when January's with him.

Jacob Black is lying spread-eagle smackdab in the middle of January's backyard. The grass is soft beneath his bare back and there's a ladybug crawling on his stomach. It tickles, but he doesn't pay it much attention. Usually, if he were brooding-Jacob, he might've. But he's with Janie, and it somehow seems okay to have a bug swarming on his skin.

January is sitting behind the top of his head, long legs crossed Indian-style. She's weaving a wreath made out of daisies for him. Her elfin features are childishly curious as she peers at him with her wide, owl gray eyes. In Jacob's vision, her face is upside-down. She observes in her crisp chime, "You haven't said two words since we sat down."

He shrugs, a content smile twisting at his lips. "I don't want to ruin it."

Janie beams. Jacob realizes that she's wearing the same lavender cardigan she wore on the day they met and a long flowing blue skirt. She didn't bother with stockings, which makes him grin like a lewd teenage boy whenever her skirt rides up. Her raven black tress is mussed and messy, spilling over her round shoulders, capped with a floppy straw hat.

After a moment of silence, with Jacob's chest burning pleasantly, she went back to her weaving. He goes back to staring at the ladybug that's steadily paving way up his ribcage.

"All done." She announces just as he's about to fall asleep. She sloppily forces the circlet, which has been made just a few sizes too small, over his unkempt shag then leans back on propped arms. The way it's digging into his forehead told him that he should be irritated but in this instance, he can't find it in him to care. So he grabs Janie's face and pulls it towards his with a loud, riotous laugh.

It's kind of weird, kissing January upside-down. But it's also warm and intimate with her heady scent swimming around him, his eyelashes fluttering against her neck. It makes him lightheaded in a funny, thrilling way that's completely tolerable.

His hand is at the base of her skull, threading through the ebony waves. Hers are awkwardly cradling his jaw, she tries to shift into a more comfortable position, but whenever she moved, her nose would bump clumsily against his chin and she would pause. She murmurs against his lips, "_Peter Parker_."

He snorts, his head inadvertently lolling to the side. It's just a normal day down in La Push. The sun is performing a vanishing act, so the sky is a cloudy charcoal gray. A gray just a few shades darker than Janie's eyes. From her backyard, he can see the ocean, the roaring waves folding and curling until they reduced to nothing more than foam as it finally hits the shore. There are two familiar forms standing on the beach. Tall, looming, and red-skinned.

Jacob squints his sunken eyes, attempting to focus but failing miserably with January's lips so close to his throat as she studied the ladybug on his sternum. Then he jolts up so quickly, Janie hollered in surprise and fell back onto the grass. His mouth is filled with cotton. The familiar rush of scorching heat flooded his veins. His chest ached with something fierce. He rubs it, well aware that his arms are trembling.

The ladybug fell.

"Jay-cub?" January's silvery irises are wide, blinking up at him with bewilderment. "Are you alright?"

He swallows, inhaling deeply. Jerkily, he reaches up to scrub the back of his neck. His entire body was on fire. That exploding, phasing kind of fire. He tries to levitate it by relieving the panic but his heart is racing much too quick. "No." He tells her distractedly, then paces away, instructing firmly, "Stay here."

He leaves January Jansen sitting there in the grass, her hat slightly askew, lips red, brows puckered in confusion.

He all but runs to the shoreline, breathing heavily. His back is burning and he knows that Janie must be watching. He demands gruffly, "What are you doing here?"

Paul is shaking from head to toe like a tuning fork. He snaps back, "What? Do you own the beach or something?" Jared places a restraining grip on Paul's shoulder. Paul shrugs it off, "Who is _she_?"

Jacob grows defensive. "Nobody." He protests.

Jared blinks, observant eyes on January, then shifting to Jacob. He suddenly grows self-conscious. He must look like a joke, bare-foot and bare-chested with Janie's stupid wreath gawkily situated on his head. Jared asks cautiously, speaking slowly and deliberately, "Are you...seeing someone, Jacob?"

Jacob blinks. He hasn't figured this thing out with January yet. He glances back at her. She's moved to the very edge of the fence, waiting. He sighs, "No." It was the truth.

"Then what? You just make a point to make out with random girls?" Paul attempts to lunge forward, maybe to break Jacob's collarbone or something but Jared pushed him back on the chest.

Jared hisses, although Jacob's not sure why he's whispering, "Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell us? Does—" Jared falters, "Does Sam know?"

Jacob blinks again. It seems to be all he's capable of doing at this point. He'll just answer all their questions and maybe they'll leave him and Janie alone. He doesn't really mind getting into a fight. Everybody knows that he'll just kick Paul's ass, but he doesn't really want to do this in front of her. He confesses, "I didn't tell anyone."

Jared is silent. Paul is hoping to set him on fire with his glare. Jared admits, "I'm surprised you hid it for this long. Especially with the phasing." _Yes, he's worked real hard to keep it that way._ Jared inhales deeply, "I won't tell Sam." Paul roars and complains, outraged. Jared raises his voice in order to override Paul's and Jacob can almost hear the conditional 'but' in his tone. He continues, "There's going to be a bonfire this weekend. It's Claire's birthday." _Oh, right. Jacob had planned on not attending, just like the year before, and the year before that._ "You should come." Jared's suggestion didn't really sound like a suggestion at all. "Bring her with you."

Jacob swallows. There's nothing he can do at this point. In the back of his mind, he wonders if maybe he can kidnap Janie and they can elope somewhere, but it seems a little too early in the relationship for that. Jared's dark eyes are flashing and Paul looks so damn smug. He knows better than to cross the both of them.

He nods once.

He trudges back to January, an annoyed scowl pulling at his mouth, his brows knitting in an angry furrow, the hard lines of his face returning. He rests one arm on the fence he put up for her; a twinge of fondness pulls at his heart.

_The way January Jansen slid into Jacob's life, it was like she's always been there._

She waits patiently. It was one of those things he loved about her. How she never pushed. She never needed an explanation. If he has one, she accepts it. If he doesn't, or if he simply doesn't want to tell her, she drops it. She never wants more than what he can give her.

"I have to take you out on a date." He informs her blankly.

He only realized that he sounded rude when January replies smoothly, "I'm sorry." January's apologies are never simple. They didn't mean she was sorry about her actions. She means, '_I'm sorry you feel that way_'.

He waves it away dismissively, "No. It's fine. I just...I just didn't want you to meet my friends." After a beat, he adds as an afterthought, "They're jerks." He studies Janie. She's peering down at her tangled fingers. He becomes nervous at that. "I-it's a bonfire. There's going to be food and...it's um, my friend's niece's birthday." He struggles to make it sound _normal_ but it's been too long. He swallows the thick lump in his throat and envelops her smaller hands in his. "I'd...I'd like you to be there. With me."

There. That wasn't so hard, was it? Whatever happens, he'll just tell Jared that he tried.

"What should I wear?" January inquires casually, a single brow raised.

He releases the breath he didn't know he was holding. He laughs. He tangles his fingers in her trailing tress once more. He kisses her temple, her eyes, the corner of her mouth. He's elated but he's not sure why. Then he pulls back, suddenly aware that Janie will no longer be just his anymore. That once she goes to the bonfire, she's part of the Pack's and he'll have to start sharing his problems with her. He clenches his jaw, examines her with sunken shadowy eyes, just a tint wistful.

January Jansen tilts her head, "What are you thinking about?" She grins, "If that's not too bold of me to ask."

Jacob Black figures there's no harm in indulging her. Just this one time. He runs the back of his hand across the sharp plane of her cheekbone, scrutinizing the rolling waves on the beach. It was easier to focus on that than the dusky gray in Janie's gaze.

"I was just thinking about how...nothing lasts. And what a shame that is."

In a move that stunned Jacob, January shifts closer and wounds her arms around his waist. She rests her head lazily against his side, her cheek still feels warm against his feverish side. Hesitantly, unsure of his motion's for the first time in a long time, Jacob lets his arm drape loosely on her shoulder. She's much too short for the action to seem natural plus, this was a position Jacob has never been placed in before. He's not familiar with the concept of 'cuddling' but he's willing to venture a guess and say that this is pretty close to it. It feels ungraceful and not at all romantic but it's pleasant enough that he didn't mind it and reassuring enough that it makes him chuckle.

Jacob had almost given up on speaking entirely until Janie whispers, something he would've missed if he had even blinked. She tells him knowingly with a smile, "Some things last."

_The way January Jansen slid into Jacob's life, it was like she's always been there._

Yes, January had slipped into his life like she could see all the spaces where Jacob needed someone and all the places he didn't, and she had seamlessly, silently, oozed into all the dark, aching cracks, filling them up, just a little, making him a little more whole.

And, in the process, she'd done what Bella had never managed to do even with all her trying, all her effort; January had slipped right into his soul.

* * *

**End Note:**

**Didn't I promise all you guys a longer chapter? I think that this chapter is actually one of the most advanced thing I've written probably in my entire life. All right, maybe that's an exaggeration, but it's definitely a piece that I'm extremely proud of. Writing in Peter's point of view in the beginning of the chapter is something I debated with myself for a long time of rather or not it's the right decision because I'm always iffy on the whole switching POV thing because it's just so hard to make it JUST right so that it seems natural and seamless. And I really wanted to stay on Jacob's POV because I want the entire story to be seen from his eyes but...the Peter thing just felt right to write about. Because I realized that we're so enveloped in this cocooned, magical Janie/Jacob world that we're loosing sight of reality a bit and Peter sort of brings that all into focus. **

**It also marks a new conflict, actually this chapter introduces several conflicts, into the story. So we're really kicking it into high gear now. We're going to have the Pack engaged in here, most probably some vampire action, as well as an outsider like Peter trying to stick his nose in here. So no doubt, that's going to annoy our Jacob to the ends of the world. **

**Question of the day: What do you think about Peter now that you've gotten a glimpse into his life? Whose point of view do you like better? And of course, your favorite moments accompanied by your favorite lines?**

**Feedback, criticism, and encouragement is always loved and desired and I thank you so much for sticking out this dry spell with me. I can guarantee you that I'm back to writing almost everyday and that the updates should be flowing in pretty regularly now thanks to my PMs with my lover, Morning-Sunset, she's helped me through all the tricky spots so shoutout to her. **

**Hope you all enjoy this chapter. Lovezzzz, Kitty.**


	12. Insomniac

**The Man With Few Words**

_"If a job is worth doing, it's worth doing well." –Proverb_

* * *

_Chapter Twelve_

January Jansen was missing when Jacob Black woke up.

He is used to this. She's always up before he is but he's always the one who trudges off to bed hours before she does. He thinks she doesn't sleep. Actually, he's pretty sure that she doesn't. And the few times he's woken up to her presence, it's already deep into the night when there's no longer anything on TV and the sky is just a looming, velvet black.

She always _looks_ sleepy to him, even though she claims she isn't so. The way her sloppy black hair tumbled in a messy, loopy way he's getting way too used to. Or how pale she is compared to the pictures he saw of her back in North Carolina or how much thinner; it was as if somebody had tossed January into the dryer, bleaching her several shades lighter and shrinking her already delicate frame. Janie would sit on the couch or sometimes stare out the window and she'd look like she was ready to fall asleep but then she would immediately dive for her cigarettes or some coffee or a pint of ice cream.

Jacob knows that she didn't have a problem sleeping. He knows that she's just afraid of what happens during the process. He knows how she just doesn't want to dream.

So he lets it go on. Who is he to tell her to come to bed? Janie has never forced him to tell her anything nor has she tried to control him. He's just returning the favor. But that doesn't stop his chest from throbbing whenever he wakes up to see that she's sitting in the exact same spot he left her. Usually it's by the window overlooking the backyard. She's perched on the windowsill with her endless, spidery legs curled all around her, her forehead against the glass pane. All around her would be crushed cans of Red Bull and empty cigarette packs.

He goes through the same thing with her almost every morning. He'd rub the back of his neck and sigh, "_What are you doing, Janie?_"

January turns so slowly that the motion seems almost mechanical. Jacob notes that there are deep, shadowy indentations on her temples that wasn't there before. Her normally silvery eyes are charcoal and smoky; dazed. She blinks rapidly a few times, valiantly attempting to clear the growing fog in her head. She crushes the empty bottle in her hands. Her fingers are trembling but her voice is steady and as clear as bell chimes. "_Watching the grass grow. What does it look like?_"

"_It looks like you're suicidal._" He remarks back bluntly, leaning against the archway to the living room. Pushing his thick matted locks back, "_You didn't come to bed last night._"

She dismisses the issue, "_I'm not suicidal. I just couldn't sleep._" Turning back to the backyard and fumbling for the lighter resting near her ankle, she shrugs nonchalantly, "_I like the sound of rain. I don't mind spending the night with it._"

"_You can't keep doing this._" He tells her firmly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pajama bottoms. He wants to say more. He wants to gather her into his arms and convince her that she doesn't have to do this to herself. That it's all going to pass eventually. He wishes he could promise to make all the pain goes away. But he can't. Because he's going through the same thing himself. And because the person she wants to hear all these promises from...that person isn't him. He wants to be the one to reassure her. Yet, "_Don't, Janie,_" is all he can manage at the moment.

She burns her wide dilated eyes at him, then as if they itched, she brought her hand up to rub them, only to freeze just millimeters away, resorting to pinch the bridge of her nose instead. She's been doing that a lot and it makes him wonder if she wears contacts or if it's just one of her nonsensical habits. She settles for massaging her temples, her fingers sinking into the ghostly hollows there as if imprinted into that exact shape.

"_I'll try some sleeping pills tonight._" She tries to appease him before promptly fleeing out the door for another vigorous round of chain-smoking.

January always seems to have plenty of excuses of why she can't sleep. She can't sleep when it's raining. She can't sleep if the room is even the slightest bit chill—which isn't a problem now that Jacob's moved in. She especially can't sleep if there's even a sliver of light in the room. Other times, when she indulges him in his requests, she would lay in bed and shift and toss restlessly the entire time. Or at least until Jacob would nudge his elbow gently into her side and sluggishly tell her to go read a book or something.

Then when she exits, when she thought he had fallen back into his heavy slumber, she'd hiss in pain and clutch her scarred leg to her chest. When she thinks he can't hear, she groans and bangs the back of her head against the wall. When she thinks he can't see, she tosses back a half bottle of aspirin. She thinks he doesn't know—but he knows all about how on stormy days, she waits for him to go to bed, then rips off her stocking and sticks her aching calf in a bucket of ice.

One night, there had been a mysterious call. Jacob had been exhausted because he had been charged with the graveyard shift earlier that morning, so he crashed into bed almost immediately after pizza with Janie. It couldn't have been more than an hour when a persistent ringing echoed in his ear and sent his senses into overdrive. Jacob isn't one to just pick up Janie's phone calls because that would imply a relationship more personal than the one he's sharing with her, but he had thought his head was going to explode. He was drowsy and angry so when he heard the soft, surprised boyish voice over the phone, he didn't think much of it. He had handed it off to January, who clicked it off almost as soon as she received it.

"_Who was that?_" He demands, annoyed that he made all this effort for nothing.

January turns up the volume on the TV, "_Peter_." She replies simply.

Irritated, "_H__ow do you know it's even him?_"

She blinks her owl-gray eyes, unfazed with his annoyance or attitude. "_I just know._" She had answered mysteriously.

She didn't sleep that night either.

* * *

Jacob Black couldn't find January Jansen after he woke up. Usually, he can hear humming or fumbling or the television going on but the house is oddly silent today. He props himself wearily onto his elbows, scrubbing a hand over his face. For a partial second, he considers getting out of bed and looking for her but then he just flops restlessly back onto the bed.

Janie'll be fine. He, on the other hand, has that stupid bonfire he needs to get to tonight. The mere thought gives him a headache. Surrounded by all the heat and the chattering—Jacob has a migraine.

The front door smashed open. Jacob jolts, scrambling to press his back against the bedframe. The front door slams shut. Heat floods his veins, his muscles are crawling below his skin. There's sound of furniture being tossed around and bumped into.

First thought that crosses Jacob's mind: _OhDearGod. FuckJared, he must've told and now Sam's here to snaphishead off. Oh God, he has to run. Sam's going to kill him. Oh __no__, not on Janie's carpet!_ It was a long thought. But a singular, flowing stream of consciousness nonetheless.

But then there's the light, uneven pattering of footsteps followed by the floral scent of gardenias before January Jansen finally poked her tousled raven head into the room. She's wrestling with her boot, struggling to toss it off, casting her awkward colored scarf to one side, and tugging a wooly hat off her forehead. The elastic left ribbed marks against her forehead, which she tries to scrub off.

She's absolutely glowing. Her snowy skin, usually ghastly pale, is flushed with red. He can feel that she's about a whole degree warmer than she usually is. Her charcoal eyes had almost a feverish gleam to it, the glitter of her flashing beam holding a maniacal edge. She jumped onto the bed and flings the covers off him. For a moment there, he thought he was going to be sexually harassed and widened his dark gaze marginally in surprise, prying her flailing limbs off his side in panic.

"W-wha?" He stutters, eventually conquered with Janie sitting cross-legged on his stomach and her palms pressed eagerly up against his chest. He almost swats her away again until he realized that her hands were cold and that she was just trying to use him as a radiator. Annoyed, but not as bewildered, he lets her. He scowls though, complaining throatily, "—fucking scared me to death."

January is waving something in front of his face. A little green paper, too fast for him to catch the texts, "I got a job!" She cries triumphantly. She's throwing facts at him rapid-speed, "I saw that they were hiring at that dance studio up in Forks. They need an instructor and I figured that I could do it. Not like I can really go professional with—you know, but my doctor had said that if I take it easy, I could handle moderate exercise. Isn't this exciting, Jay-cub?" She's basically squatting on his chest, her neck extended forward as if seeking his approval.

He shakes his head, making a move to sit up, but that didn't turn out to be such a good idea as Janie's lithe body slid down south and landed somewhere that made his eyes go cross. He lays back down, breathing deeply, "You got a job?!" It was hard to sound incredulous when he's focusing on burning a hole into the ceiling. "Wha—_why_?"

January complains, "Some of us have to make a living, you know." He scrunches his face. She gives him a pointed stare, scolding, "You're just jealous because I can find a job and you can't."

"I can find a job anytime I want!" He scoffs childishly, puckering his brows together. Old Man Ben at the mechanic store was practically begging him to work at the _Rest Shop_, he'll have her know! "I just don't have time for one."

January refuses to listen to him explain. Instead, she goes on to rant about how hard the interview was and just how much they tested her before she dazzled them with her amazing charm. Then she starts jibing about how he's too lazy and how he never does anything except for sleep and how she wonders what he was like before he _cracked up_.

He doesn't like the way she talks about him. _Cracked up_. As if he couldn't be mended. But Janie was so goddamn happy, he found that he didn't mind much. He doesn't mind as long as if feels as if Janie's the one to fix him.

* * *

"Janie, we're going to be late!" Jacob Black scowled impatiently at the fireplace. He's standing in the middle of the living room with January flying all over the place for shoes and shirts and purses. "Just put something on and let's get out of here."

January's hands are buried deep in her long, tangled locks as she shimmied around in a lithe, svelte sweaterdress that matched her haunting eyes. "...Can't find my—where are, did I put them? Wh..." If Jacob didn't know any better, he'd say she was nervous. But he does know better. He knows she's always like this, frantic and sloppy. Janie always appears to be chaotic, all her colors flying around and vivid phrases, but on the inside...well—he can never be too sure, he guesses. She tugs on her worn red boots, skinny fingers threading grassy green ribbons through her raven tress.

Jacob blinks. "You look like a Christmas tree." He states bluntly.

He had meant that the green in her ebony waves was the color of Christmas morning. The color of evergreen trees that he remembers as a child when mom thought he still believed in Santa Claus. He had meant that January reminds him of Christmas morning.

But Janie, being Janie, didn't need any explanation. She tugged the worn leather of her shoe up her scarred calf gently, murmuring, "Thank you." Then she touched her hair, looking slightly worried. He lets his thumb graze her wrist, lips twitching upwards reassuringly. She beams right back.

He takes her out the door and shows her his Rabbit. It's such a quaint little thing that probably hasn't seen rain or shine for years. He couldn't have let the dirty Washington rain spoil the polished crimson exterior when his own scruffy hide could soak it in. He can't remember the last time he let someone into his car.

_They would get it dirty. They would get it wet. They will scratch the leather._

There were a hundred million reasons why, but Jacob Black could not figure out—not for the life of him, how January Jansen somehow managed to convince him to let her drive. He was reluctant to give her the keys at first, as all men are, but then she burned those silvery eyes into his darker ones and he noticed with a compelling fascination that her gaze seems shades lighter than they were this morning. In that hesitant pause of silence, January had breezed past him, snatched the keys away from him and launched herself into the driver's seat.

Jacob follows, dazed as well as a little bewildered, then snuck a peek at Janie's eyes. He wouldn't even call them gray anymore. She's lost that stormy, charcoal texture in her irises. Instead, it looks metallic...or glossy, more lily-white than slate gray.

He frowns, demanding, "Do you wear contacts?"

January stares at him, then blinks her wide-eyes worriedly. Her hand flies up in that familiar motion, going to rub them as if. But once again, she stops just millimeters away. She taps the space between her arched brows, exhales deeply, then pushes her hair back. "No." She answers as if it were something he should already know.

Then she starts the car, working the gearshifts roughly. Her small hands keep a loose grip on the wheel, but an iron grip on the manual stick. All her timings are off when she stomps on the clutch pedal so that Jacob's precious Rabbit moved in a spastic, jerky manner. At the cross intersection on their way down to the location of the bonfire, January didn't even bother with the gears as she rushed past a red light without a single glance backwards.

Jacob supposes he would've been agitated if he weren't so sublimely confused by the color of her eyes in the first place. When he pointed out her traffic violation, she only shrugged it off, claiming that no one was there to witness anything anyways. But Jacob can't help but think it's something different. Something too nonchalant in the way she says it, as if she's not only trying to reassure him, but reassure herself as well.

It was the blank look she's wearing that scared him. As if red no longer means anything to her.

* * *

At the bonfire, they're singing _Happy Birthday_ to Claire. Quil's cheeks are rosy with happiness as he carried the birthday girl around and sported a tiara atop his shortly cropped hair. Emily is sitting on a fallen branch with Sam's arms around her. Jared is roasting Kim a hot dog. Leah pines for Sam in a corner like she always does, hunting for firewood then angrily splitting it open with an axe. Even Seth is there with a date—a girl from his high school, and he's introducing her to Embry, who smiles politely before going back to digging seashells out of the sand.

When Jacob approached, it's Embry who spies him first. He stands, brushes his hands against the fabric of his jeans, then jogs forward. Jacob can feel himself shrinking back, can feel his stoic mask slipping back on, as if all the muscles in his body are folding in. He halts in his step; January's fingers still loosely tangled with his.

He drops all contact with her at once.

"Hey, Jake. 'Bout time you showed up. Seth is about to talk my ears off about his dream girl." Embry grins wolfishly, pushing his hair back. His eyes scanned over Janie like an X-ray machine, memorizing every last detail. The action made Jacob wary. When he finally thrusts out his hand, he greets, "I'm Embry. It's good to meet you."

January seems oblivious to Jacob's withdrawn behavior, or if she did notice, she pretended otherwise. She bounces forward, hair flouncing with the wind, and accepts the gesture with a beam, "Nice to meet you too. Call me Jan."

Then January is led away from him. Embry fills the gap between them with charming remarks and warm smiles and puts all these silly, foolish thoughts about normality into her head. Jacob is still rooted into the same spot because it's been too long since he's socialized. Hell, he hasn't really been running with the Pack for years now. These days, he only talks to them because he has to.

The homey, cozy atmosphere of a birthday party intimidated him. The comfortable vibe mocked him and his inability to be content. That vague, angry emotion is still deep inside him. It would seem clumsy if he tried to act like how he used to, before Bella and everything. He _feels_ clumsy, just watching Janie being ushered around by Embry. A feeling of loss overcomes him.

All he wants to do is grab her, stuff her back into his car, and return her to the house. She doesn't belong here with all these people. She belonged to him. And having to share her uncovers the nasty scars she does so well at concealing for him when they're alone. He feels like the same angsty, brooding beast he used to be. The rush of depression and misery is back with a vengeance. His chest throbs.

This is a bad idea. He knows it is. He's got her involved now and a part of him feel guilty because she had really no idea what she was getting herself into. Maybe he should've said something to her. Maybe he should've told her. But what else is there to say? For it's not until this very moment, when he's staring at January Jansen as she sits next to Emily, that Jacob realizes he knows very little about her.

He knows about her past, of course. Where she grew up. Her family. But he doesn't know any secrets; doesn't know any stories.

He doesn't know why she can't sleep. Doesn't know what really happened to her after the accident. Did she change? Did she learn to accept the grotesque reminder? He doesn't know why she loves Peter. He doesn't know why she left him—because with the fond memories always hanging around the house like a haunting ghost, he doubts that she can just give him up just for the good of him. He doesn't know how she copes with all this.

He doesn't know why her eyes seem shades lighter or darker in certain lights. Doesn't know the significance of her fascination with color. Doesn't know why she ran that red light or why she flinches away from the bonfire every time it crackles as if it's screaming at her.

_Secrets. He has them. She has them. Dreadful secrets. Everyone has them, he supposes._

Jacob Black doesn't really know anything about January Jansen. But there is something he wants _her_ to know...something he wants her to know about _him_—which is, even if she revealed to him her deepest, darkest, most awful secret...he would not think any less of her; even if the rest of the world does.

* * *

**End Note:**

**This is not my greatest work, I will admit that and I once again apologize for the long wait between chapters. I wrote and wrote and then deleted and then erased and then REWROTE and nothing just seems to fit so I settled for churning out a mediocre chapter that seems to delve a little deeper into January's past and a little into her problem now. The next chapter should be coming out pretty soon because I've got so many great ideas for it and it's just coming along real well. But you never know, maybe I'll run into a bump in the road. Let's cross our fingers, shall we?**

**I think that the story is really jumping into the rising action now and I think that you'll be VERY happy to know that the next chapter will be written in January's perspective. It's going to be explain her psyche and her past relationships and her 'issues' rather than her everyday life and Jacob because I think that it's best to leave how she feels for Jacob in a sort of ambiguity zone. Wouldn't want to give EVERYTHING away, would we? Anyways, the next chapter explores the men in Jan's life and the different way she loves and I think you'll really love her. She's definitely got a more poetic way of thinking and she's definitely whimsical, unabashed, and confident so it's gonna be a good one, you guys. (I hope).**

**I really hate switching POVs especially in the middle of a story but I think this one will really kick the story into overdrive so stay tuned! I love you all for your comments and supportive reviews and you guys really just make my day with every comment. **

**Question of the day: What do you think January's past relationship are like? And I'm going to ask you guys for help in what kind of character you'd like to see as Janie's past lovers. I've already got this pretty solid image in my head but it never hurts to hear you guys' awesome input. And of course, I always love it when you guys quote back to me or tell me your favorite moments.**

**Lots of love, Kitty.**


	13. Childlike Part I

**The Man With Few Words**

_"__Love is a game, in which one always cheats."—Honore de Balzac_

* * *

_Chapter Thirteen_

January Jansen is a simple girl.

She's always trusted her instincts. She acts strictly on impulse and emotions; she does not analyze herself. Because once you start doing that, the doubts began to plague you. The 'what happens then' and the 'what ifs' will invade. She'll never get anything accomplished that way.

The way January operates is she sees something she likes, she isn't afraid to reach out and take it. She wants something, then it's hers, but only if she's brave enough to claim it. January loves easily and perhaps she loves too intensely, but it's simply in her nature to.

Some may call her selfish. Some ask her about the feelings of others. But January will just tell them that she doesn't care. This is who she is. And when she sees that person that she knows is just _it_, she won't be able to help herself and she'll follow them to the ends of the world. She's always loved whom she wants to; she can't control that. She's happy that way. Free to live; free to love.

She loves the feeling of being in love. She loves the rush, all that extra electricity sprinting a marathon up-and-down your spine. She loves the butterflies in your stomach, the hitch in your breathing. Her brain gets all full of static and she would feel lightheaded in a way that's _way_ better than normal.

All charged up and tingly, she feels invincible. She doesn't mind saying things she'd usually never say. She doesn't mind doing things she'd usually never do. She would do anything to hold onto that feeling; even if it meant making promises she can't keep.

January doesn't mind cheating. She wouldn't encourage it, of course. Yet, on the other hand, she also knows that things happen...and in that very moment when you _think _you're in love, there isn't much you can do to stop the inevitable.

January Jansen is a cheater—that, she'll freely admit. Because she's always believed that anything worth having is a thing worth cheating for.

* * *

_Sebastian Hammond_

He was very much like January's experiment.

It had been her first week at _Juilliard_ and she was the typical freshman. Young, ambitious, and full of nervous energy. The small-town girl with the big-time dream. She's heard the cliche; seen the movies, but living in one seems so different. January was a lot like wet cement back in those naive days. Whatever fell on her made an impression.

The world is hers. And she promised herself that she would plie and pirouette her way into its heart.

Jan had a partner-in-crime. A young man with ponytailed blonde hair and the highest leap she's ever seen. She was proud to have him as a mentor and even more grateful when he offered to show her around campus. She supposes that's when she heard the rumors.

_Sebastian Hammond, who writes the most beautiful songs. Sebastian Hammond, who comes up with the most haunting tunes. Sebastian Hammond, who nobody has ever spoken to before._

He plays by the lake, under the big oak tree, every Thursday afternoon. A crowd of _Juilliard _students surround him like faithful disciples. Afterwards, they ask for his inspiration. They ask for advice. They ask for a cup of coffee. But Sebastian Hammond never responds. He would tuck his guitar under his arm and ghost away, as if he were never there in the first place.

People knew very little about Sebastian besides the fact that he's a student of _Juilliard_, like the rest of them. Nobody really knows what class he's enrolled in, or why he never takes up any of the glory. But that's not what intrigued January. It was the fact that he has never shown any interest towards anybody. Almost as if he found it sad that no one could capture his attention, the way he captures theirs.

So January Jansen finds herself among the hoard of admirers, head tilted curiously to the side, the dark fringes falling distractingly into her eyes. She tells herself that she'll just have a peek. She's sure he's not as alluring as everybody makes him sound. She reminds herself that she's got herself a Pretty Peter.

But none of that mattered as soon as she laid eyes on him. The sharp hitch in her breathing and her mouth parting involuntarily. She could never forget that feeling. Not even now. It's such a vivid part of her memory. The sight of Sebastian Hammond. It was like the first time she ever tasted chocolate.

Sebastian Hammond in a straw fedora, pulled down so low that you can't even see his ears. He emerges from the far end of the lake, where the art studio is. His guitar is an old thing, slung over his shoulder; beige—much like the color of his slacks. He fiddles with the rim of his hat, afraid to reveal even a single facial feature. He wears a loose white button-down with a gardenia tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt. Sebastian Hammond plays barefoot.

January thought he was the most magical sight she has ever encountered.

Her heart was thundering, beating a mark into her chest. Her cheeks are flushed rosy with heat and her palms are clammy in that awful yet exciting way. She thought her stomach might burst with all the vultures flapping around. There was a lump in her throat.

When the last note of his song ended, he was quick with his escape. The crowd, still dazed, stay rooted to their spot. January spies him, with her sharp vision, quietly padding back towards the direction he came from. His retreating form is agile and quick, but she can still catch scent of the gardenia wafting off his shirt. She jogs up, wounds her fingers around the cuff of his sleeve and tugs gently.

He stops at once, arm twitching away from her in surprise. She doesn't falter though, taking advantage of this small moment of weakness to slide in front of him smoothly. She curls her lips up into her most charming smile. She beams, "Hi. I just wanted to tell you that I really enjoyed your music." To be honest, she didn't listen to a note he played. All she cared about was the face under the fedora. All she wanted to do is solve the mystery.

He shuffles back from her, nervous and seemingly a little agitated. She catches a glimpse of suntanned skin and smatterings of light freckles. He readjusts the angle of his hat, his neck flushed adorably red. He nods once in thanks. She grins demurely, and as he staggers to move around her in order to make a swift escape, she plucks the gardenia from his pocket, tucking it behind her ear. He's near jogging now, slinking through any space he can find, but January could've sworn she saw him smile before disappearing into the distance.

Jan smiles herself, happy to have made an impression.

---

Sebastian Hammond did not show up next Thursday at _Juilliard_. Or the Thursday after that. And January was starting to get worried. Perhaps she was playing this all about the wrong way. Maybe she shouldn't have approached him at all. What was she thinking? She has Peter waiting for her.

_What would he think if he knew about this?_

She shakes her head of her silly, foolish thoughts. She rubs her temples. She tells herself to forget about the boy hiding under the fedora. She tells herself to forget about the gardenia she keeps inside her duffle bag. She tells herself that she needs to stop loving everyone she sees because it's just not healthy—or normal.

She slams her locker shut and rushes out of the shower room. She gives a distracted wave to her classmates, many of them still getting dressed or getting ready for rehearsal.

January exhales deeply, her hands gripping the strap of the gym sack strewn across her chest. _Right. She can do this. She can forget him. She has Pretty Peter. Peter's probably waiting for her back in her and Jude's apartment. Maybe they can go out to dinner tonight…catch a movie—oh, maybe that cartoon one with the mammoth and the sloth..._

Her forehead clashes right into somebody's guitar, which they had been hugging to their middle. She yelps, blinking rapidly to clear the shock away, because standing right there in front of her...was Sebastian Hammond. She almost wants to reach out, just to make sure it's really him. Her veins are flooded with that warm electricity she loves so much. She's ecstatic to be feeling that again.

Her first reaction is joy. She can hardly stop the beam from stretching across her face. She knows that she must look tousled and a mess; her dark damp hair falling to her waist, she's wearing sweatpants, she's barefoot, and she's getting his guitar all wet with droplets.

She pays no attention to that though. Because there he is. Sebastian Hammond. He's just _standing_ there. So close that she could tell that he _always_ smell like gardenias. He's clad in a plain white t-shirt and cargo pants. He's wearing funny sheepskin slippers. The hat is still there. Made of straw with a strip of sky blue ribbon.

She's so giddy that her senses are kicked into hyperdrive. She thought she was going to explode and a million butterflies would burst out of her. He's just so near. Too near to have been not affected by her charm two weeks ago. She can hear him swallow, the hollow thump of his heart.

"January?" She closed her eyes, swarmed with warmness. His voice had a gentle, southern lilt, not quite eloquent enough to be articulate, but not clumsy enough to be called a lisp. She's not sure how he found out her name, but she's too elated to wonder.

She blinks up at him, "Yes?" She breathes.

He turns skittery, as if he had not planned this far or expected to even find her at all. He runs his fingers along the rim of his hat, murmuring nervously, "I'm sorry for just—running into you like this. But, I just...I was wondering if you could come somewhere with me? I-I wrote you something."

Oh. January would've followed him anywhere. Anything—she thought at the time—anything to get him to take off that hat_._ January would've sold her twin just for that. He took her to a courtyard behind the art studio and played her a song

"_This is what I look like today, and I'm trying not to pull out my hair. I'm trying to grow it, but I'm far to show it back there. That is probably why I like wearing hats..."_

If you were to ask January now how Sebastian Hammond looks: she would've told you that he was...just a boy. His skin is the color of butterscotch gold. His eyes are emerald green and wide with wonderment, his nose is slightly too big for his delicate features and his top lip is much thinner than his bottom. Everything about Sebastian screamed awkward. But it was that kind of awkward where you couldn't take your eyes away.

"_I wrote this for my prettiest friend, while trying not to prove that I care. She has me holding my breathe, so I'd never guess that I'm such a nut, such unsuitably suited for her."_

January Jansen doesn't know why Sebastian Hammond always wears a hat. Because he has such pretty, pretty hair. Thick, flaxen curls the color of wheat fields. They feel loopy and silky, gliding through her fingers.

"_But if you ask me, the feeling that I'm feeling is complimentary. And oh, how it goes to show…the moral of the story is boy loves girl. And so, the way that it unfolds is yet to be told."_

Sebastian Hammond lasted three months. It was a wonderful three months full of bike rides in the park and playing guitar in the rain. It felt like a majestic, fantastical summer romance. Like a gorgeous, magical dream.

Then on the day of January's first performance for _Juilliard_, her dressing room was filled with fresh, fragrant tiger-lilies. A card sitting on her vanity table read very simply, '_May the night be as wonderful as you are. –Peter_'.

And Sebastian Hammond woke up.

And January Jansen didn't move from her spot behind the changing screen until she heard the bouquet of gardenias drop onto the floor and the door shut quietly behind him.

* * *

_Alexander Mahone_

He is the one January loved deepest.

No matter how hard January tries to ease pain, shift it, alleviate it, that burning memory of him doesn't move. She doesn't want to forget about him; forget about how she felt—God, no—she just wish that it would fade a little in intensity. She wishes she wouldn't miss him so much. She wishes she would stop getting so nostalgic like an ignorant schoolgirl because it does nothing. He wouldn't want for her to pine after him like that.

It's been a long while since she's seen him. Or perhaps it just _feels_ long. In her memory's telephoto lenses, the more far away the object is, the more they're magnified. That must be why she can see him so vividly inside her mind. He used to tell her that; things that are hard to bear, are sweet to remember.

Their relationship must've been effortless because all she feels when she thinks of him is wistful longing.

People say that nothing is more memorable than a smell. Jan thinks that's what their affair was like. A fervent, but fleeting perfume. Because a single scent can be unexpected, momentary and cursory, yet conjure up detailed recollections, such as the woodsy masculine cologne that always seem to linger on his skin. Smells detonate softly in everyone's memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of age. Hit a tripwire of smells and memories will explode all at once.

The faintest waft is sometimes enough to induce feelings of hunger or anticipation, or to transport you back through time and space to a long-forgotten moment. It can overwhelm you in an instant or simply tease you, creeping into your consciousness slowly and evaporating almost the moment it is detected. She always reaches out to grasp for it, wanting to know—if only just for a second, what it would be like to feel that emotion again, but it always eludes her and slips away through the cracks of her fingers.

That's how he's been for as long as she can remember. Enigmatic, mysterious, and deadly calm. It was such a dangerous combination. How could she _not_ fall for it?

---

January really loves her and Peter's new apartment. It's smackdab in the middle of Manhattan and Jan loves the excitement. She doesn't mind the colorful lights shining through her window even at 2 in the morning. She doesn't even mind the loud music that sometimes pounds through the walls whenever her neighbor would have parties.

Peter didn't like it much. He has to grit his teeth and strain his brow in order to study, but he endures it all for her. Most of all, January loves how whenever she finishes practice with the Company she dances with, she can cut across Central Park and get home in only 15 minutes.

She isn't sure if she just didn't notice him at first or if he simply wasn't there for her to notice. Whichever it is, Jan remembers the first time she saw him. He's leaning against the stone railing of the bridge, propped on his forearms, looking so suave and refined that she literally halted in her step and gaped openly.

He was built lithe and svelte; thinner and taller than Peter. His hair is shaggy and sandy colored. He always wore classic rectangular shades to conceal his watchful gaze and tailored black suits with a matching skinny tie. He wouldn't move much. He'd just lean there against the bridge, shifting every once in a while as not to seem unnatural. Pensive and thoughtful, his expression often suggests. He seemed calm, but yet he carried himself proudly and reassured. Too reassuring perhaps.

Jan didn't need to walk any closer to him to tell that he was older than her. _Much _older.

He's there everyday at around the same time. Jan knows this because whenever she finishes practice earlier or stays later than usual, he isn't there. But at 4:00, when the sun is shining high, there he would be. He stands there, face impassive, tossing bread crusts at the ducks in the lake below in the exact same spot; in the same exact position.

Every since January's noticed him, she couldn't take her eyes off of him. She'd race after rehearsals let out, sprint through Central Park, and hide behind a tree as she admires him from afar. She didn't dare approach him at first. He was so stoic, so surreal. She didn't want to shatter the beautiful illusion of this perfect stranger, even if he fascinated her to no end.

By 4:40, his friend or maybe it's his colleague, would come and tap him on the shoulder. He would jerk out of his contemplative trance then walk off in a straight, confident stride. And January would press her back deep into the bark of the pear tree and smile up at the sky dreamily, her stomach clenched in anxious curiosity, her heart racing and thundering.

She thought of a billion things to say. She thought of a billion names for him. _William...Michael...or James._ Something sophisticated and old-fashioned. She thought of a billion ways to introduce herself. _The moment he looks into her eyes, she would have him. He'd fall for her and that'll make her the happiest girl in the whole world. _

One day, she took a grasp of all her courage, put on her favorite dress—white with floral prints, brushed out the cobwebs in her sloppy inky hair before rushing out for Central Park. She stayed in her usual hiding place until she can catch her breath, pacing her thumping heart. She could hear it pounding in her ear, could feel heat flooding her fingertips the way only love can make her feel. Exhaling deeply, she tightens her grip on the strap of her gym bag, whirled around then ran towards the bridge.

She purposely collides with him forcefully. Not brutal enough to make him stagger, but just so that all her costumes burst out in colorful puffs and flew onto the floor. There's tulle falling slowly through the air, ribbons and cottony leg warmers lying in a puddle.

She drops to her knees immediately, apologizing profusely, fighting down the beam that's cutting into the edge of her mouth, "Oh my goodness. I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to just run into you like that." _Yes. Yes, she did._

He's quick to join her, crouching down on one knee, handing pieces of garment to her quietly. He murmurs softly, "It's no problem." His voice is smooth and resonated from somewhere deep in his chest.

January outright _stares_ at him as he scours the area around him for any of her belongings. He was by no means handsome. His features are all too bold, making him seem brisk and cold. The lines that crease his forehead are faint, but evident. His hair is faded blonde, curling near the nape of his neck. She absorbs every detail about him. The slope of his cheekbones, the gentle line of his jaw.

"Thank you." She says distractedly and he looks up at her.

It was the perfect moment. One side of her lavender cardigan is slipping, revealing a bare shoulder. Her hair is just tousled enough to look casual, a big chunk of wispy bangs flopping over her forehead. She's breathing heavily, both from the run and the proximity between them. She widens her silvery eyes for him, pouts with her lips. She can feel his gaze flicker there instinctively.

_She has him. She knows it._ A rush of wild energy fills her, almost making her tether over as that fervent buzz rippled under her skin.

But then he stands up, resumes his place by the bridge. The corner of his mouth is quirked into a sly grin, as if he knew exactly what she was doing and he found her actions to be amusing.

She flushes red, but she wouldn't give up. She pushes her tousled tress back with one hand, the other still holding onto a pair of dangling pointe shoes. She swallows thickly, shoves her hand forward, "I'm January." She says in a sort of casual, by-the-way manner.

He inclines his head in her direction, straightening once more. The knowing, clever smile is back. It makes January more hesitant than she'd like to admit. His long, elegant fingers wrap around her palm. Her skin stung from the contact. "It's nice to meet you. I'm sorry about your bag." He replies breezily.

She nods once before hastily pulling her hand out of his. The sensitive part of her, the part she usually does so well in oppressing, won't allow rejection to pass by so easily. Jan can feel herself shrinking, her ferocity crushed by his nonchalance. She forces herself to make another attempt. Maybe she could draw another wily beam out of her hat, but his colleague is here now, tugging him away urgently, and in a matter of seconds, he was gone.

January lost her chance; her window of opportunity. She couldn't stop running that moment in her mind over and over again; mulling over every small detail. The strange, disconnected sensation that she can never quite figure out what happened that day. It haunts her.

But at rehearsal the next day, as she rifled senselessly through her duffle bag for the white silk square she uses as a hair tie, she came to a sudden realization and dropped the sack onto the floor with a loud gasp.

January had to wear an ugly maroon scrunchie that clashed terribly with her eyes that day. In her opinion though, it was worth it, just knowing who has it makes her feel like the most special girl in the whole world.

---

He had stopped coming to the park. And it's not until a month later that January Jansen finally sees him again.

She had been visiting Peter at the _New York Presbytarian Hospital_. She sits impatiently in the waiting room, swinging her legs, waiting for him to punch out so that they can go out and grab some lunch. Jan can't wait to get out of here. Hospitals always made her nauseous. It makes her think of the time when Jude broke two ribs playing football and they wouldn't let her go in to see him because they're afraid of infection after surgery, so she slept outside his door for four days until they let her in.

The woman sitting beside her lets out a _ferocious_ sneeze that actually made January jump. She doesn't quite understand why someone would be in the ER for a cold unless it was _really _serious. Unnerved, she decides to move away from the woman and to look for Peter herself. She has to get out of here now, and she'll drag him by the ear if she has to.

Slipping past bustling nurses, patients in gurneys, she makes her way towards the reception desk. She raps her knuckles against the counter, trying to capture the attention of the receptionist that's prattling away into the phone, "Ex-excuse me. Excuse me, but can you please tell me where Peter Petrelli is?" The receptionist holds up a finger and January exhales deeply. The back of her head hurts. She raises her hand to rub her eyes.

She sees him. Through the transparent glass of the exam rooms. He's shrugging his arm into his suit jacket, twisting his shoulder in an awkward angle. The floppy haired doctor treating him is trying to push him back onto the stretcher but he won't have any of it. He makes his way to the door, wrenches it open, then storms wildly into the corridor. He charges toward a man sitting in a wheelchair with a head injury. The nurse complains, but he silences her by flipping open a leather pad.

"Special Agent. Alexander Mahone." He signals to his colleague, whom she hadn't noticed was there before. "I have orders to take him in for questioning."

January nearly _swooned_. It's something straight out of a movie. He's probably some hardened CIA agent and he's in love with her but he won't be with her because that'll put her in danger, and together they're going to go on _Mission Impossible_-like adventures and save the world.

The notion seems _almost_ believable.

The doctor is protesting because the man is bleeding and _Alexander_ is just trying to shove him out of there. It's not until now that she realizes the floppy haired doctor is Peter. It's funny; usually his dark girlish hair is the first thing she notices.

_Alexander._ The name fits him perfectly. Why didn't she think of that?

_Alexander_ is insisting that he discharge him immediately. January smiles. She knows that Peter isn't one to argue. He's much too placid to be harassed. He only purses his lips in his typical disapproving way before signing off on a chart, then someone came and whisked him off to another exam room.

January had been eager to get of there, but having _Alexander_ here changes everything.

As if he could hear her chanting his name, he turns slowly, and his eyes meet hers. He's not wearing those shades of his this time, so Jan can see—as clear as day, that his eyes are blue. Clear, ice blue. They reminded Jan of peppermint because her spine feels all tingly and chilly whenever he looks at her.

There is something different about today though. She feels as if something changed in his inner workings; as if his priorities all shifted onto her. This time, she knows _for certain_ she has him. This time, the air between them is crackling with heat and intensity. This time, she knows that the moment they're alone, everything is going to change.

He exchanges a few words with his colleague, then he crosses the distance between them with a few easy strides. His sly, charming grin slides into place, "January, right?"

She laughs. It sounds winded. She clears her throat and tucks a strand of hair behind her hair, "Uh...yeah." She hates herself for sounding so young. She almost frowns until she saw her the edges of her silk square tucked into his jacket pocket, like the way Sebastian used to keep his gardenias; then she smiled down at the floor demurely.

"I sure hope you are not here for the repercussions of our little incident last month. Otherwise, I would feel solely responsible." His words are smooth, his phrasing eloquent. His steely eyes is the color she associates with winter. Piercing and severe; but intimate.

She can't stop the beam from stretching across her face. She pushes her childish hair back and peers up at him through her lashes. "Luckily, I was not injured." She tilts her head, "Although I do seem to be missing a personal belonging of mine." She raises a coy brow at him.

He chuckles, but makes no attempt to hide his guilt. "Ah, yes. Well, we simply can't have that. As a man of the law, I must insist you file a report with me." His colleague is calling his name. _Mahone, we gotta head back, _he says. He glances back at him and holds up a hand. He speaks hurriedly, rushing out the four words she's been dying to hear, "Are you free tonight?"

She bites the inside of her cheek, breathless and flushed, "I-I don't know. Why?"

"6:00. The Plaza Hotel." His body drifts away from her although his lightening gaze remained on her. His blue eyes flicker as he spoke, "Be there if you want your handkerchief back."

---

She hates calling it an 'affair'. Although, that is exactly what it is. She doesn't know why she doesn't end things with Peter. Nostalgia, probably. An almost unbearable attraction and attachment to him. Peter had a perfect, lovely image in her mind. She doesn't _want_ to ruin the picture.

Doesn't _want _to break him. Doesn't _want_ to stop loving him.

The affair's been going on for ten months. January would say she's almost proud of it, except for the nature of their circumstances. In her mind, she knows that she's allowing herself to get emotional, she knows she's starting to get lovesick, because when she can't see him, she feels like she's suffocating. She can't stand to be around Peter either, because he was too sweet and trusting, and it makes her feel like a lying, cheating whore.

Oh, wait. _I think that ship has sailed, Jansen._

She refuses to listen to the voice in her mind. Instead, she escapes. She sits in Central Park and she draws. It's her new hobby. She's not very good, but it makes her concentrate on one subject for a long period of time. It teaches her endurance, she likes to think.

Sometimes, Jude will seek her out.

"How's Peter?" He'd ask. His buttery blonde hair casts a halo above his head. He stands with his hands in his pockets, peering down at her with interest. He never shows any disdain or surprise towards her actions. He knows her well enough to predict her every move.

She wouldn't look up. "He's fine. I convinced him to take up the internship with that doctor he admires so much." She doesn't say that her purpose was to keep him away from her more.

But Twin gets it. He gets everything. He tilts his head and smirks. "How's Alex?" He inquires. His gaze isn't focused on her, instead, it's wandering all around the park. He'll stare at anything except her. And he's standing so far away that from a distance, you won't even be able to tell they were conversing.

She grows irritable. "He's great." She draws a harsh, angry line across her paper before flipping her sketchpad shut. Her patience is waning. "I don't want to talk about it, though." She exits moodily. Usually, she's not this impatient with Jude but she doesn't like to talk when she's feeling conflicted or uncertain.

January seeks refuge in Alexander's loft. It's in a fancy, marble high-rise building somewhere downtown. The taxi ride takes her 45 minutes but she's feeling so unraveled that it seems like she's there in a blink. That's always how it happens. She never knows how she manages to get there. It's like she fell into a trance and when she wakes up, she's standing in front of his door, knocking and banging until he lets her in.

She dashes past the doorman that's been there ever since she started making these trips. Her boots are flat so they make virtually no noise. She almost runs over the bellhop with dry cleaning before being yanked on the elbow just as she's about to enter the elevator by the building manager.

"Miss, may I inquire as to who you're visiting?" He must be new or else he would've recognized her.

Jan isn't good with authority figures. "Um," She stutters, "Uh...Alexander Mahone?" She hates herself for sounding so nervous, as if she didn't belong.

"Mr. Mahone isn't in yet. Perhaps you would like to wait for him in one of the seats over there?" He gestures an arm towards the lobby.

"I-I, you don't understand! I live here." That wasn't _technically _a false claim.

The manager, his nametag reads Jerry, stares at her dully. "I'm sorry, but I can only allow family members in while the primary resident is away." He only takes a few seconds to glance at his computer screen. "And as far as I know, Mr. Mahone doesn't have a daughter."

January Jansen flushes, outraged. "I'm his wife."

She is blatantly lying, but she feels somewhat obligated to justify her actions, if only to this moronic idiot. She's well aware of how young she is and how childish she must look. Her jet-black tress is a mess, a tumble of tangled waves, her bangs fluttering just above her eyelash. She's wearing a silk polka-dot tank top and a beige knit sweater. The sweater sleeve keeps sliding off her shoulder since she's dragged the sleeves over her knuckles to conceal her ring-less fingers.

The man has the decency to appear surprised. He clicks away on his computer. _Tap, tap, tap._ The rhythm matches the sound of her boots clicking against the floor. Finally, he glances at her, confirming, "Pam?"

She freezes. _Pam?_ Who was Pam? A sister? A girlfriend? A wife? _Pam, Pam, Pam._

Was she as much of a love affair as he is to her? January is stunned, although she still manages a nod while the man prattles on with an apology. She stumbles into the elevator, her head swirling.

Sure, she's dating Peter, but she's a stupid child. What was his excuse? Did he even have one? They're _married_. She didn't understand. She..._couldn't_ understand. She feels as if somebody took her brain out of her skull and locked it inside a spinning teacup while she stands on the outside, desperate to dial her mind into some form of clarity.

Alexander's loft is located on the 18th floor. Everything in there is kept immaculate. The floor is made of pearly white tiles and the counters of granite. He doesn't have many decorations, none even. A pile of her subscribed _Cosmopolitan_ magazine sits on a corner of the coffee table, then there are a few scented candles she brought over when she first arrived. His office desk is dark wood. A computer, a coffee cup, two picture frames. There's one of a young boy she's pretty certain was his nephew. Then there's one of her.

The entire loft is an open area. The kitchen is tucked behind the living room. His study next to the living room. The stairs lead up to second level that contains nothing but a bed and a tall bookshelf behind it. A balcony connects to the bed where she sometimes sneak off to if she needs a smoke. There are no doors in the loft. No secrets.

She wishes he were as easy to understand.

The entire far side of the wall is nothing but glass. A huge window pane. It was built there for whoever lived there to admire the view. Because at night, when all the lights go on in New York City, it's truly magnificent. But Alexander uses it for a different purpose. The window is taped with criminal records and forensic reports and information on whatever case he's working on at the time.

January's dizzy. So dizzy that she didn't even realize she's been sitting with her temples locked between her knees for the past two hours and that Alexander finally decided to grace her with his appearance.

He strolls in through the door in his usual confident, strident way. His faded blonde hair is all lopsided, curling near the nape of his neck as he tussles it up even more and hooks his briefcase onto the coat rack. "I'm sorry for not getting back earlier." His words are spoken gently and throatily. It makes her heart pound out an irregular beat. "Have you been waiting long?"

She's curled up on the couch, her legs hugged to her chest. She knows how compulsive he is with neatness but she's too vexed to care about her boots leaving dirty prints on the leather. "Yes." She answers calmly but her eye twitched in annoyance.

"I got held up at the office. I wasn't sure if you were coming over today. If you had told me beforehand, I would've gotten you dinner or something." He loosens the knot on his skinny black tie, wandering over to brush his lips against her forehead.

January lets him. But as soon as he pulls away, she can no longer bear the confusion. The bewilderment smothered her. "You're married." She blurts.

He seems taken-back. Then his icy eyes darken just slightly, so that it's cerulean instead of glacial. He smiles patiently, "I figured that you knew once that big-mouth dimwit downstairs told me 'Mrs. Mahone' was waiting upstairs for me." He tilts his head to examine her expression. She can see her reflection in his glassy irises. Her brows are scrunched, her hair is loopy, and her lips are pursed into a scowl. He concludes, "You're angry with me." She shoots him a pointed look. He chuckles, once again amused by her naivety, and tells her, "I'm not married, Jansen."

"Yes, you are." She narrows her silvery glare. At this point, she simply didn't care if she sounded childish.

He shrugs, "At least not anymore. Pam and I divorced almost 2 years ago." Although January was very tempted to refute his comment with '_no, you didn't_', she held her tongue, because the sincerity in his pale eyes is disarming. He smiles, "If I wasn't divorced, don't you think you would've seen her by now?"

January grudgingly accepts his logic but she's still miffed by the fact that he didn't say anything to her about it. He laughs, smoothing down her wild hair so that it's not sticking up all weird anymore. It's sort of neurotic of Alexander, his obsession to make things right; she found it endearing. He grabs a hold of her ankle, beginning to tug her boots off for her.

She voices her concern, "The big-mouth dimwit downstairs thought I was your daughter." She is unable to ease the invisible line that's pulling her brows towards each other. She can't help but appear worried. She once again feels the need to explain, "So I told him that I was your wife. Just to shut him up."

Alexander glances at her, expression curious. He asks simply, "Does it bother you?"

January doesn't know what he's referring to. The fact that the big-mouth dimwit thought she was his daughter or the fact that he's twenty years older than her. Or maybe both, because it's kind of the same thing. She sighs, slumping into the sofa as he proceeds to pull off her shoes. "No. I suppose not."

"Good." Alexander smiles. He rarely smiles at her. There are a lot of witty quips, lots of soft murmurs or cunning smirks but he only smiles when he's especially pleased. He fascinates her. He is neither beautiful or dazzling, but Alexander is graceful, provocative, and magnetic. "C'mere." He lures her out of her seat and into the kitchen. "I'll make you a drink."

"Vodka, preferably." She presses her cheek against the cool marble of the countertop. She studies him—scrutinizes almost, while he pulls open cabinets, searching for utensils. She secretly loves the way he moves. All agility and allure, like a feline. Alexander seems to have an inner compass, a line of symmetry that he follows down to the tee. So fluid, it almost seems rude. As if he slips past you so effortlessly, it makes you feel clumsy and flustered.

He makes her hot chocolate.

He stirs carefully, his slender fingers curled loosely around the silver spoon, his suit jacket pushed up to his elbows. She tells him earnestly, in this moment of total calm between them, "I'm not angry, you know. About Pam." He doesn't react. January lays her chin on her arms, "I wish you would've said something."

"It's one of the things I like about you, Jansen." His lightening gaze is sparking. "You don't pry." She blinks, her tinsel-gray eyes are wide. She's unsure rather to accept that as a compliment or a warning. But then his long, sinewy arms are suddenly wrapped around her and her face is pressed into his chest. She grasps his shoulders tightly. His deep, woodsy scent makes her light-headed and warm. "I wanted to tell you. But, I was...concerned, as to what you might think. I didn't want you to know that I used to love someone else. It bothered me."

She realizes it right there and then.

_She loves him. Loves him, loves him, loves him._

January Jansen has to tell him. Because she feels like it's growing inside of her. An awful, suffocating sensation. She'll crack like an overflowing dam if she doesn't tell him. She pushes herself onto her tiptoes and breaths into his ear, divulging him in her epiphany, "I think I love you, Alex."

Alexander Mahone strokes her hair, well-aware that he is powerless to stop anything at this point. He smiles sadly into her raven tress, "I know you do."

* * *

**End Note:**

**TA-DA! January Jansen's point of view. How did you find her to be? Shocking? Scandalous? Wild? All of the above? I really enjoyed writing in January's mind set because it's so easy for me to predict her actions and what she's going to say. I just take everyone's FIRST instinct and run by that because that's exactly the person I wrote January to be. She doesn't analyze herself and she doesn't care what other people might think about her actions. **

**This is actually going to be a 2-part chapter because the Alex Mahone part is just running so long that I just know I won't be able to finish without it getting completely out of hand so we're not quite done with Jan yet. There's going to be falling action to Mahone's storyline and then also a third lover. So please stay tuned for him. He's a real interesting one, I promise you that. **

**The next chapter is going to drive deeper and darker into January's past, specifically around the time frame where she broke her leg and she's healing and just trying to get through the day. I do admit that I based Alex Mahone a bit on the Prison Break character if any of you watch Prison Break and the song that Sebastian sings to Jan in the beginning is called 'Prettiest Friend' by Jason Mraz. Check it out, it's awesome. **

**Question of the day: What is your impression of Alexander? Favorite moment and line? What do you think of January now that you've been inside her head? Do you retain your original opinion or have you done a 180?**

**Write down to me all your thoughts and remarks and drop me a line in that cute review box below. I love all comments and PMs and I love all that give this story a chance and for sticking it out with me even during hard times. **

**Loves, Kitty.**


	14. Childlike Part II

**The Man With Few Words**

"_The greatest evil is physical pain." –Saint Augustine_

* * *

_Chapter Fourteen_

They say that the hottest love has the coldest end.

January Jansen agrees, but only partially. Because when does love really end? Can you ever really stop loving someone completely? Or is love like a birthday present, something you give somebody when you feel admiration for them then they can give it back on their free will?

January Jansen is convinced that she could love Alexander forever.

Forever. What a beautiful word. She thinks 'forever' is lie. Nobody could really love someone forever; eternally. No love is everlasting. 'Forever' isn't realistic. 'Forever' isn't real.

But January wants it. Wants it, wants it, wants it. She wants someone to promise her 'forever'. She wants somebody to love her unconditionally. She wants someone to make her believe in 'forever'. She wants somebody to shake her, slap her, rattle her soul out of her body and tell her that they're going to be together for all of eternity rather she chooses to accepts it or not.

Because January is tired. She's tired of fighting. She's fought for so many things in her life. Some for revenge, some for a sense of self-righteousness, and some for her infallible pride. She supposes that fighting for love makes more sense than all the rest—but she's tired of that too. She's tired of the struggles, tired of lying and cheating, tired of dazzling men. She's just about out of wily beams, witty lines, and pretty dresses.

She's done with this. She craves stability over excitement.

January Jansen is convinced that she could love Alexander forever. Because although Alexander had never promised her the vastness of forever, she's sure that she's got enough fire in her to fight for one final thing. January doesn't need 'forever'. She just wants it.

* * *

January is not sure how the covers ended up back on the bed, but she's glad for the comfort it provides. The New York wind that's breezing through the balcony of Alexander's loft is drafty and unforgiving, clawing fiercely at her pale, bare skin, making her shudder. She crawls closer to him instinctively, draping herself over his smooth, lean back like some cheap rug. She presses her cold cheek against the defined planes of his shoulder blades and hums contently.

She knew he was awake. The steady rise-and-fall of his chest, the serene lines in his usually brisk features suggests otherwise, but she knows better. It's his eyebrows that give him away. It's the most expressive of all his little quirks. Alexander is good at suppressing emotions; good at keeping people guessing. But his brows betray him. They arch, furrow, drop. She thinks it's funny.

There's the faint remnants of a scar at where his shoulder meets his arm. A very light outline from where a switchblade had sliced through his expensive suit and sent him to the hospital that day they met. January almost wants to say she's glad for it. She leads her hand away, settling for tracing the provocative dip of his spine with the pads of her fingers.

She speaks softly, "It could be like this, you know. Always." Her heart swelled from inside her chest. Heat flooded her fingertips. She feels vulnerable and giddy.

"Like this?" Alexander repeats after her skeptically. "You mean—seducing me so that I'll sleep with you instead of going to work?" He chuckles, his cerulean eyes half-lidded and that sly grin that drives her crazy tugging on the corners of his mouth.

"That's part of it." She shrugs. The rush of adrenaline inside of her makes her invincible as well as a little fuzzy. She's not quite sure what she wants to say. She just knows she has to say something. Something to make him stay with her. "We can be together, Alex. We can be..._more..._than this."

Alexander props himself up on one arm. She slides down to the hollow of his chest. His heartbeat is strong and steady, not erratic or skittish like hers. He approaches cautiously, inquiring gently, "What exactly are you suggesting?"

"I mean," Her silvery eyes dart across the ceiling. She frowns, "Why aren't we together, Alex?" She seems to be asking herself more than him. Why is she with Peter? Does she love him? What keeps her from pulling away from him?

"Because you're with Peter." He responds smoothly. His face is perfectly blank. He seems unsure of where this might lead. It bewilders him slightly.

"I don't want Peter." January is serious now. She knows it because her throat is thick and she can't breath properly. She's done with fun and games. She wants him. Him and only him. She's done with this. "Why can't it be just the two of us?"

"It _is_ just the two of us." Alexander seems frustrated and pained. His low, throaty voice turns comforting, "You know that, don't you?" She's not sure she does. She's not sure how much longer she can pretend she does. He took a deep breath, sensing the words she's unable to say, "We know that when we started this—" He didn't appear to know how to gesture the two of them either, "We know that it wasn't going to last. It's going to end when it wants to. We're here now. Together."

She doesn't want now. She wants forever.

She swallows and stares deep into his pale blue irises. "That's not enough." She tells him.

"That's all I can give you." His voice is deadly calm. He rolls out of the bed, slipping on a pair of slacks and closing the balcony doors. He leans against them, his back to her. "Please, Jansen. Don't make this any harder than it already is. Don't complicate things."

"I'll simplify it then." She slinks out, the covers draped around her shoulders. She glides in front of him and steels her eyes. She forces her gunmetal gaze on him despite the fact that she can't feel her legs and that her heart feels like it's trying to jolt out of her chest and climb into his. "Marry me, Alex."

If he's surprised by her request, he doesn't show it. "You know I can't do that." He says. He looks so alluring standing there, his sandy hair crinkled, his pale eyes bleached like the Carolina sky. January's never felt more insignificant or small. He reaches for her, kissing everywhere he can see. Her lavender eyelids, her sharpened cheekbones, her trailing dark hair. She wants to shrug him off, but she's a little numb, waiting for an explanation. "You're 21, Jansen. You're young and gloriously beautiful. You can have anything in the world. Everything you want can be yours."

"I want you." She states dumbly.

"I'm already yours." The clever, knowing smile flickers. Her skin jolts in an electrifying way that feels awfully heart-wrenching. The smile turns wistful, "I know how you think you know what you want. I know how you think it's me." He shakes his head, "But it's not."

"You're wrong."

"Peter is a good man." He continues. Alexander is ruthless. She doesn't understand how he can be so unfazed by all this. She doesn't understand how he can be so cruel to her. So unforgivingly cold. She wishes he would stop. Stop filling her head with foolishness and nonsense. "He's good for you, Jansen. I could not have parted with you for anyone less than him."

She glares, hurt; confused. She's a kicked puppy—like he picked her up from the pound, took her home, then decided that 'you-know-what, he's not really a dog person'. "Is this your answer then? That I'm not good for you?"

"Don't twist my words, Jansen."

She can't help but lash out. She can't accept it; the sting of rejection overwhelms her. "Is it because of Pam?" She demands fervently. "Not that you love me any less but that you love her more?"

"Don't do that, January. _Don't_ do that to me." He warns lowly, punctuating each word as if he wants it to be a personal blow to her. He sounds a lot more hurt than she anticipated. It hurts her too. Her chest feels shattered.

"Don't make me then, Alex!" She snaps irritably. January hated yelling. She hates getting angry and raising her voice. It doesn't change anything but in the heat of the moment, she can't stop herself. She can't stop her heart from hammering or her throat from drying. She thought she might explode. "We could like this. Forever." She makes one last attempt. One last charm to draw him back.

But Alexander backs away. His words carving an imprint into her, "We can't be together, January. We can't be what you want us to be. So, please. Don't ask that of me." His glacial eyes are pleading, but she can't seem to bring herself to forgive him like all the other times he wounded her with his logic and reasoning. "We can't be together. Because you can't love me the way I want you to."

* * *

Alexander Mahone will forever be the one that got away.

The one who took her heart and never gave it back. The one who she turned herself inside-out for. She can't help but be in pain. She can't help but be the damsel-in-distress. She can't help but be angry and vulnerable and frustrated. She wants to forget him. But she can't. She almost doesn't want to. She would lie in bed, replaying their relationship over and over against in her mind, mulling over every small detail. She can't help but feel there's something she could've done. Maybe she could've loved him more.

January Jansen can't sleep.

She almost doesn't want to. She stares wide-eyed at the ceiling, lost in her thoughts, too wrapped up in the unraveling of her mind to pay attention to much else. In the mornings, she gets up. She goes to the dance studio. She has lunch with her brother. She laughs.

Sometimes, when it gets especially lonely. When the world doesn't seem as mean and she just wants to make an effort, she'll huddle close to Peter. She tries to embrace the boyishly floppy hair along with the boyishly charming smile; and then it seems almost as if she's back to the way she was. She didn't realize that she had missed his expressive, poetic eyes and his serene demeanor.

She missed all of him. And from the way he grips her tight to his chest, the sigh escaping his lungs, she knows that he missed her too.

Loving Peter comes naturally. It's effortless and easy. January's done it so many times over her lifetime that she doesn't even have to think about it anymore. It's like shimmying back into a dress you thought you were too fat for and is both delighted and surprised to find out that it still fits like a glove.

January Jansen decided then and there that she doesn't need 'forever'. She doesn't need excitement or passion or any of those foolish nonsense meant for silly teenage girls. January Jansen will settle for ordinary. She'll settle for contentment.

* * *

_The Accident_

Dying. It feels a lot like drowning.

January Jansen is well-aware that _everybody_ who's ever been _fucking ran over_ by a car probably says this, but she'll just emphasize it for dramatic effect: She did not expect it—_at all_.

She remembers it being an uneventful day. She had rehearsal; she was scolded by her instructor about her turns not being sharp enough, she took a coffee break with some other dancers, then she sulked a bit before heading off into the showers. She dressed slowly, the way she always does. She's wearing a new sweater that day. Pearly white cashmere with a wide boat neck and a leather miniskirt.

She calls Peter. They were going to have lunch together. Maybe at that nice Japanese restaurant she loves so much. He'll be here to pick her up soon, he says, that there's a hold up in traffic and that he loves her. She replied that she loved him too.

Then she exited though the Metropolitan Opera House backdoor, walked out into the street, and was promptly hit by a taxi.

The initial impact was devastating. It came at her full speed, as if it did not understand the concept of 'stop'. The heavy metal of the front bumpers smashed, with breathtaking force, into her calf. The socket of her knee jarring out of place immediately, the telltale sign being the sickening crack that vibrated through the air. The broken fibula is twisting out of the muscles as her ribs crushed against the hood of the car.

January Jansen would've hollered, but she feels as if her lungs are deflating.

She rolled bonelessly onto the car, helpless and hopelessly unaware, her shoulders rammed into the windshield followed by her head, which made a horrifying 'thud', cracking the glass into spider webs.

_Dying. It feels a lot like drowning. _

Like you were forcefully shoved into a pool of ice water. You didn't expect it to be quite so icy. You imagine yourself to be tougher, but the pinpricks of the chill is searing into your bones, freezing all your nerves. Your muscles are heavy and lacking. Even your heartbeat is slower, although you can hear every agonizing thump in your ear.

The whole world is muted and muffled. The images you see are from underwater; blurry, unreliable. The voices you hear are all slurred together, the words don't make sense.

January has a vague sense that she must be seriously hurt, because she's never felt anything quite so disconcerting or so detached before. She tries to blink the shock away from her eyes. Her chest is burning from lack of oxygen.

"Breathe, January!" She wheezes. The cold air rushing down her windpipe and tearing at her sternum, bringing exploding spasms of pain blooming across her body. "Damn it, Jan! Breathe!" She breathes again. The agony makes her light-headed. It makes her faint. All her senses are in hyperdrive, throwing her off balance. "Come on, January! Wake up! You have to stay conscious!" And inhale again. _GodMotherfucker, her leg is on FireBurningLikeHellOhFuck_. She can feel someone's arms around her, desperately pulling and yanking, dragging her out of her peaceful frozen pool.

Reality hurts like a bitch. A bitch with puppies.

"Wha—ahhh, what's goin-, I don't..." Her mind is broken. Coherency flees her. All January can focus on is the throbbing heat that's setting her knee ablaze, the crackling sound her chest makes whenever she breathes, there's also something sticky running down her head. It feels warm, thick; _wet_. "Wher, wh...P-Peter?"

She's still laying on the top of the stupid yellow taxi. She's all splayed out, with all of her bent at awkward angles. In her mind, she's wondering if this is tangling up her hair because she put a lot of effort into combing it this morning.

Peter's girlishly floppy hair is the first thing she sees. Then his worried, puppy-brown eyes. Then the lopsided loop of his lip, jutted into a ferocious frown. "Jan, can you hear me?" She can't. Not really. She hears his voice, it's sort of an involuntary thing, but she's not listening. Peter's peering deep into her eyes. In his warm, melting gaze, she sees her reflection, bleeding and shattered. "You have to stay with me, January. Stay with me, alright?"

"Hmm?" Her eyes flutter. She's never been good at following directions.

"Jan! Jan! Goddamn it, Jan." She's pretty sure that this is the only instance where Peter's ever sworn to God like that. Her Pretty Peter whom goes to church every Sunday. "You have to remain conscious, January. You could go into hypovolemic shock, do you understand me?"

Of course she doesn't understand him. What the hell is he going on about anyways? She's fine. She _will be_ fine. She just, she just needs to sleep it off. Yeah. That's it. When she wakes up, she knows she'll be alright again.

Peter will fix her. Just like he always does.

* * *

She remembers once vaguely promising that she wasn't going to stray after the whole Alexander fiasco. She remembers telling herself that she's done with this cheating and lying business and that she would..._adjust_ to the domestication. And for a while, that was enough for her.

She'd come home every day for dinner. Pasta Tuesdays. Lasagna Fridays. Sundae Sundays. She's there for all of them. She puts in a nice movie, puts her head on Peter's shoulder while he studies, and puts her heart in his capable hands. And soon, she tells herself that the Alexander fiasco doesn't affect her anymore.

Then the whole car fiasco happened. January, for the first time of her life, is at lost. She's at lost for words, at lost for her injury, at lost for an identity. Who is she supposed to be now? She _was_ January Jansen: dancer, girlfriend, sister and daughter.

Now, she's—January Jansen: limp, sleeping around, and someone who doesn't return her family's calls.

Peter thought she had post-traumatic stress or something like that and pulled a lot of strings to get her a slot in Dr. Nolan's, the most notable shrink in off of New York, busy schedule. January doesn't mind sitting in a ritzy office for 90 minutes a week, talking about her limp and her recovery. They're always discussing the same shit anyways. Her leg hurts like hell. She's indulging in self-destructive behavior. She needs a new profession.

She knows all this. How could she not? But what she wants is to be fixed. She knows something is wrong. It's all dysfunctional. Yes, she gets that.

Now, make her better.

January Jansen refuses to cope. She refuses to spend the rest of her life with a cane, limping around like some wounded puppy. However would she live like that? How would she smile again? How could Peter still love her, if she's no longer the same January?

And whom would she love? Would she ever love again?

Dr. Nolan suggested a procedure. It was an experimental trial, but she had pounced at the chance. They would insert Ketamine in her brain, induce her into a coma. Drown her, then revive her. It would allow her brain to reboot. She would regenerate faster, maybe regain use of her leg. Maybe she wouldn't have to hurt anymore.

But maybe she would hurt more. Maybe the needle would miss its target by a millimeter and leave her with permanent brain damage.

Peter begged her not to do it. He's a medicine major. He would know the risks. His soft, poetic eyes pleading for her to stay with him, "Don't do this, Jan. _Don't_. It doesn't matter to me. I love you just the way you are. Come back. Come back to me."

"You love me just the way I was. I'm not the same anymore, Peter. I...don't know how to be January again." She's standing in the apartment they've shared for years. And she's trying to make him understand she's doing all this for him. For _them_. Can't he see that? "You gotta let me try, Peter. You have to give me a chance to get better."

"I've given you too many things, January. I've stood by you and I've let you take whatever you want from me." She's never seen Peter so determined. "And you know I would do anything for you, Jan. I would love you. Each day until forever. Whatever you want from me, it's yours. It's _my _job to protect you. Why won't you let me?"

She won't because this all has nothing to do with him. This is about her. And she needed to do it for herself. So she called up Dr. Nolan and signed the consent forms. The surgery is performed, and she could walk.

For 3 months, there were no side effects. For 3 months, she was old January again. She couldn't run, or dance. But it was close enough. She could take strolls in the park. Could go back home to North Carolina and tell Mama that she's going to be all-okay. Then one evening, when it's storming out in New York, the rain pouring torrents, flooding the streets, the faint, aching tingle came back. She wrote it off as something situational. It would be gone soon. Yet, when the storm subsided, the pain didn't.

She panicked. And that's when she realized it.

The stress, building up inside of her. All the pressure and the fear of being cripple. All those surges of powerful emotions mixed with the Ketamine. It short-circuited something in her brain. Made her eyes flash. Made the whole world seem gray and off-balance.

Colorblindness.

It was one of the clauses on the release form for the Ketamine treatment. The type she had was degenerative. Worry and shock drives it worse. Makes her vision swim. She's already lost green and red. Her world only represented in shades of grays, blues, and yellows. It was a strange thing. An even stranger thing to know that eventually, that's all she'll be able to see. Black and white.

The concept is frightening and foreign. She's not used to feeling alone. Not used to the feel of loss. Not used to the gravity of the situation. Somebody is always there to fix things for her. Somebody is always there to promise her that things are going to be all right and that whatever she's missing, she'll get it back.

And so she ran. Packed up her belongings, found the most obscure little down with perpetually gray skies that won't pierce her irises or burn her corneas, and fled there. She found the nicest boy with deep, russet skin and just the most beautifully sad eyes that makes her heart hurt. She knows that he's broken, just like her. Knows that he doesn't speak much, but there's always so much going on in his head that he just won't tell her.

It's okay, though. Because she hides things from him too. Things that she thinks makes her weak and vulnerable. Like her color-blindness. She keeps those feelings inside of her, because she doesn't know if she can stand being injured again.

She left everything behind her for him, in a way. She left her city, her dream, her brother. Left her entire life to search for something that'll make her whole again.

Peter, with his deliciously crooked smile. Peter, with intentions truer than gravity. Peter, who she was her world. She had to leave him behind too. He's too great of a reminder of her painful past.

But January Jansen will be fine. She has him now. Him, who's angry scowl is really just a mask he hides behind. Him, who is tall and strong, in contrast to her being small and girlish. Him, he tolerates all the things that she does. He doesn't ever get mad at her. Doesn't ever question things that she doesn't want to give answers to.

He likes her. Just the way she is.

She knows he thinks that she's distant. Thinks that she's just playing around with him. Thinks that she's just silly and foolish and what they have isn't real.

She lets him think that. Because _she_ knows it's real. She knows that _he's_ real. She knows what she _feels_ for him is real. And that's all that matters.

Jacob Black.

January Jansen could love him. If she wanted to.

* * *

**End Note:**

**My dear readers, I am alive. I do apologize for leaving you guys for such a long period of time without updating or telling you what's going on, but the truth is, I've been busy with finals and with school and with this new creative writing class that I took up and I simply thought, I don't know how to go on with this story anymore. But then I realized that I owe you guys more than that. That you guys deserve more, so I whipped up this old Word doc, I started a while back and wrote furiously to finish it.**

**I've reconstructed my plan, I think you guys would be glad to know, and that although updates will be coming in slower, they will still happen. I was VERY inspired by the Eclipse movie (i.e. Taylor Lautner shirtless) and I dug up my plans from before, altered them slightly, and decided to speed things up. So, what should you expect from the next chapter, you ask, dear readers?**

**How about January finding out that Jacob is a werewolf? Good, no?**

**Anyway, I've decided that I've been wallowing long enough and it's time to really jump into the full gear of things and bring in the full plot. The updates will be coming VERY slow, because I have several projects that I'm working on, but have no fear, I indeed WILL be continuing to work on this story and I hope you guys will be patient and stay with me while I am writing.**

**Question of the day: What have you learned from January's POV? What do you expect is going to happen when our darling Jan finds out about Jacob's true form? What's your favorite line in this chapter?**

**Have no fear, Kitty is still here. And you will see me again real soon. Promise, readers.**


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